PR 5488 



1907 








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Modeled in bas-relief by 
Augustus St. Gaudens in 
1887, during the auth- 
or's illness in New York 




TRAVELS 
WITH A DONKEY 

IN THE CEVENNES 

BY ROBERT LOUIS 
STEVENSON 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1907 







33 



THE DE VINNE PRES 



My dear Sidney Colvin, 

The journey which this little book 
is to describe was very agreeable 
and fortunate for me. After an un- 
couth beginning, I had the best of 
luck to the end. But we are all 
travellers in what John Bunyan calls 
the wilderness of this world, — all, 
too, travellers with a donkey ; and 
the best that we find in our travels 
is an honest friend. He is a fortu- 
nate voyager who finds many. We 
travel, indeed, to find them. They 
are the end and the reward of life. 
They keep us worthy of ourselves ; 
and, when we are alone, we are only 
nearer to the absent. 

Every book is, in an intimate 
sense, a circular letter to the friends 
of him who writes it. They alone 
take his meaning ; they find private 
messages, assurances of love, and 
expressions of gratitude dropped for 



them in every corner. The public 
is but a generous patron who defrays 
the postage. Yet, though the letter 
is directed to all, we have an old and 
kindly custom of addressing it on 
the outside to one. Of what shall a 
man be proud, if he is not proud of 
his friends ? And so, my dear Sid- 
ney Colvin, it is with pride that I 
sign myself affectionately yours, 
R. L. S. 



CONTENTS 

VeLAY Page 

The Donkey, the Pack, and 

THE Pack-Saddle 3 

The Green Donkey-Driver . . i8 
I Have a Goai^ 41 

Upper G^vaudan 

A Camp in the Dark .... 57 

CHEVL.A.RD .•\ND Luc ... -83 

Our Lady of the Snows 

Father Apollin.\ris 94 

The Monks 107 

The Boarders 126 

Upper G^vaudan {Continued) 

Across the Goulet 141 

A Night Among the Pines . , 150 

The Country of the Camisards 

Across the Loz^re 163 

Pont de Montvert 177 



Page 
In the Valley of the Tarn . . 193 

Florac 218 

In the Valley of the Mimente 225 
The Heart of the Country . . 236 

The Last Day 255 

Farewell, Modestine . . . .269 



VELAY 



"Matiyarethe jnighty things, and nought 
is tnore mighty than man. . . . He mas- 
ters by his devices the tenant of the fields." 
Antigone. 

" Who hath loosed the bands of the wild 
ass? " — Job. 



VELAY 

THE DONKEY, THE PACK, AND 
THE PACK-SADDLE 

In a little place called Le 
Monastier, in a pleasant high- 
land valley fifteen miles from 
Le Puy, I spent about a 
month of fine days. Monas- 
tier is notable for the making 
of lace, for drunkenness, for 
freedom of language, and for 
unparalleled political dissen- 
sion. There are adherents of 
each of the four French par- 
ties — Legitimists, Orleanists, 
Imperialists, and Republicans 
— in this little mountain- 
town; and they all hate, 
loathe, decry, and calumniate 
each other. Except for busi- 
ness purposes, or to give each 



other the lie in a tavern brawl, 
they have laid aside even the 
civility of speech. 'T is a 
mere mountain Poland. In 
the midst of this Babylon I 
found myself a rallying- 
point ; every one was anxious 
to be kind and helpful to the 
stranger. This was not 
merely from the natural hos- 
pitality of mountain people, 
nor even from the surprise 
with which I was regarded as 
a man living of his own free 
will in Monastier, when he 
might just as well have lived 
anywhere else in this big 
world; it arose a good deal 
from my projected excursion 
southward through the Ce- 
vennes. A traveler of my sort 
was a thing hitherto unheard 
of in that district. I was 
looked upon with contempt, 
like a man who should pro- 
ject a journey to the moon, 



but yet with a respectful in- 
terest, like one setting forth 
for the inclement Pole. All 
were ready to help in my prep- 
arations; a crowd of sym- 
pathizers supported me at the 
critical moment of a bargain ; 
not a step was taken but was 
heralded by glasses round and 
celebrated by a dinner or a 
breakfast. 

It was already hard upon 
October before I was ready 
to set forth, and at the high 
altitudes over which my road 
lay there was no Indian sum- 
mer to be looked for. I was 
determined, if not to camp 
out, at least to have the means 
of camping out in my posses- 
sion; for there is nothing 
more harassing to an easy 
mind than the necessity of 
reaching shelter by dusk, and 
the hospitality of a village 
inn is not always to be reck- 



oned sure by those who trudge 
on foot. A tent, above all for 
a solitary traveler, is trouble- 
some to pitch, and trouble- 
some to strike again ; and even 
on the march it forms a con- 
spicuous feature in your bag- 
gage. A sleeping-sack, on the 
other hand, is always ready — 
you have only to get into it ; it 
serves a double purpose — a 
bed by night, a portmanteau 
by day; and it does not ad- 
vertise your intention of 
camping out to every curious 
passer-by. This is a huge 
point. If the camp is not 
secret, it is but a troubled 
resting-place ; you become a 
public character ; the con- 
vivial rustic visits your bed- 
side after an early supper; 
and you must sleep with one 
eye open, and be up before 
the day. I decided on a sleep- 
ing-sack; and after repeated 

6 



visits to Le Puy, and a deal 
of high living for myself and 
my advisers, a sleeping-sack 
was designed, constructed, and 
triumphantly brought home. 

This child of my invention 
was nearly six feet square, ex- 
clusive of two triangular flaps 
to serve as a pillow by night 
and as the top and bottom of 
the sack by day. I call it 
"the sack," but it was never 
a sack by more than courtesy : 
only a sort of long roll or 
sausage, green waterproof 
cart cloth without and blue 
sheep's fur within. It was 
commodious as a valise, warm 
and dry for a bed. There was 
luxurious turning-room for 
one; and at a pinch the thing 
might serve for two. I could 
bury myself in it up to the 
neck ; for my head I trusted 
to a fur cap, with a hood to 
fold down over mv ears and 



a band to pass under my nose 
like a respirator; and in case 
of heavy rain I proposed to 
make myself a little tent, or 
tentlet, with my waterproof 
coat, three stones, and a bent 
branch. 

It will readily be conceived 
that I could not carry this 
huge package on my own, 
merely human, shoulders. It 
remained to choose a beast of 
burden. Now, a horse is a 
fine lady among animals, 
flighty, timid, delicate in eat- 
ing, of tender health ; he is 
too valuable and too restive 
to be left alone, so that you 
are chained to your brute as 
to a fellow galley-slave; a 
dangerous road puts him out 
of his wits ; in short, he 's an 
uncertain and exacting ally, 
and adds thirty-fold to the 
troubles of the voyager. What 
I required was something 



cheap and small and hardy, 
and of a stolid and peaceful 
temper; and all these re- 
quisites pointed to a donkey. 
There dwelt an old man in 
Monastier, of rather unsound 
intellect according to some, 
much followed by street-boys, 
and known to fame as Father 
Adam. P'ather Adam had a 
cart, and to draw the cart a 
diminutive sbe-ass, not much 
bigger than a dog, the color 
of a mouse, with a kindly eye 
and a determined under- jaw\ 
There was something neat and 
high-bred, a quakerish eleg- 
ance, about the rogue that hit 
my fancy on the spot. Our 
first interview was in Monas- 
tier market-place. To prove 
her good temper, one child 
after another was set upon her 
back to ride, and one after 
another went head over heels 
into the air ; until a want of 



confidence began to reign in 
youthful bosoms, and the ex- 
periment was discontinued 
from a dearth of subjects. I 
was already backed by a dep- 
utation of my friends ; but 
as if this were not enough, all 
the buyers and sellers came 
round and helped me in the 
bargain ; and the ass and I 
and Father Adam were the 
center of a hubbub for near 
half an hour. At length she 
passed into my service for the 
consideration of sixty-five 
francs and a glass of brandy. 
The sack had already cost 
eighty francs and two glasses 
of beer ; so that Modestine, as 
I instantly baptized her, was 
upon all accounts the cheaper 
article. Indeed, that was as 
it should be ; for she was only 
an appurtenance of my mat- 
tress, or self-acting bedstead 
on four casters. 



I had a last interview with 
Father Adam in a billiard- 
room at the witching hour of 
dawn, when I administered 
the brandy. He professed 
himself greatly touched by 
the separation, and declared 
he had often bought white 
bread for the donkey when he 
had been content with black 
bread for himself; but this, 
according to-the best author- 
ities, must have been a flight 
of fancy. He had a name in 
the village for brutally mis- 
using the ass ; yet it is certain 
that he shed a tear, and the 
tear made a clean mark down 
one cheek. 

By the advice of a falla- 
cious saddler, a leather pad 
was made for me with rings 
to fasten on my bundle; and 
I thoughtfully completed my 
kit and arranged my toilet. 
By way of armory and uten- 



sils, I took a revolver, a little 
spirit-lamp and pan, a lantern 
and some halfpenny candles, 
a jack-knife and a large 
leather flask. The main cargo 
consisted of the entire changes 
of warm clothing — beside my 
traveling wear of country vel- 
veteen, pilot-coat, and knitted 
spencer — some books, and my 
railway-rug, which, being also 
in the form of a bag, made me 
a double castle for cold nights. 
The permanent larder was re- 
presented by cakes of choco- 
late and tins of Bologna 
sausage. All this, except 
what I carried about my per- 
son, was easily stowed into the 
sheepskin bag; and by good 
fortune I threw in my empty 
knapsack, rather for conve- 
nience of carriage than from 
any thought that I should 
want it on my journey. For 
more immediate needs, I took 



a leg of cold mutton, a bottle 
of Beaujolais, an empty bottle 
to carry milk, an egg-beater, 
and a considerable quantity of 
black bread and white, like 
Father Adam, for myself and 
donkey, only in my scheme 
of things the destinations were 
reversed. 

Monastrians, of all shades 
of thought in politics, had 
agreed in threatening me with 
many ludicrous misadven- 
tures, and with sudden death 
in many surprising forms. 
Cold, wolves, robbers, above 
all the nocturnal practical 
joker, were daily and elo- 
quently forced on my atten- 
tion. Yet in these vaticina- 
tions, the true, patent danger 
was left out. Like Christian, 
it was from my pack I suf- 
fered by the way. Before tell- 
ing my own mishaps, let me, 
in two words, relate the lesson 



of my experience. If the 
pack is well strapped at the 
ends, and hung at full length 
— not doubled, for your life — 
across the pack-saddle, the 
traveler is safe. The saddle 
will certainly not fit, such is 
the imperfection of our tran- 
sitory life ; it will assuredly 
topple and tend to overset; 
but there are stones on every 
roadside, and a man soon 
learns the art of correcting 
any tendency to overbalance 
with a well-adjusted stone. 

On the day of my departure 
I was up a little after five ; by 
six, we began to load the 
donkey; and ten minutes 
after, my hopes were in the 
dust. The pad would not stay 
on Modestine's back for half 
a moment. I returned it to its 
maker, with whom I had so 
contumelious a passage that 
the street outside was crowded 



from wall to wall with gos- 
sips looking on and listening. 
The pad changed hands with 
much vivacity; perhaps it 
would be more descriptive to 
say that we threw it at each 
other's heads; and, at any 
rate, we w^re very warm and 
unfriendly, and spoke with a 
deal of freedom. 

I had a common donkey 
pack-saddle — a harde, as they 
call it — fitted upon Modes- 
tine; and once more loaded 
her with my effects. The 
double sack, my pilot-coat 
(for it was warm, and I was 
to walk in my waistcoat), a 
great bar of black bread, and 
an open basket containing the 
white bread, the mutton, and 
the bottles, were all corded 
together in a very elaborate 
system of knots, and I looked 
on the result with fatuous 
content. In such a monstrous 



deck-cargo, all poised above 
the donkey's shoulders, with 
nothing below to balance, on 
a brand-new pack-saddle that 
had not yet been w^orn to fit 
the animal, and fastened with 
brand-new girths that might 
be expected to stretch and 
slacken by the way, even a 
very careless traveler should 
have seen disaster brewing. 
That elaborate system of 
knots, again, was the work of 
too many sympathizers to be 
very artfully designed. It is 
true they tightened the cords 
with a will ; as many as three 
at a time would have a foot 
against Modestine's quarters, 
and be hauling with clenched 
teeth; but I learned after- 
ward that one thoughtful per- 
son, without any exercise of 
force, can make a more solid 
job than half a dozen heated 
and enthusiastic grooms. I was 



then but a novice; even after 
the misadventure of the pad 
nothing could disturb my 
security, and I went forth 
from the stable-door as an ox 
goeth to the slaughter. 



THE GREEN . 
DONKEY DRIVER 

The bell of Monastier was 
just striking nine as I got quit 
of these preliminary troubles 
and descended the hill 
through the common. As 
long as I was within sight of 
the windows, a secret shame 
and the fear of some laugh- 
able defeat withheld me from 
tampering with Modestine. 
She tripped along upon her 
four small hoofs with a sober 
daintiness of gait ; from time 
to time she shook her ears or 
her tail ; and she looked so 
small under th© bundle that 
my mind misgave me. We got 
across the ford without diffi- 



culty — there was no doubt 
about the matter, she was 
docility itself — and once on 
the other bank, where the road 
begins to mount through pine- 
woods, I took in my right 
hand the unhallowed staff, 
and with a quaking spirit ap- 
plied it to the donkey. Mo- 
destine brisked up her pace 
for perhaps three steps, and 
then relapsed into her former 
minuet. Another application 
had the same effect, and so 
with the third. I am worthy 
the name of an Englishman, 
and it goes against my con- 
science to lay my hand rudely 
on a female. I desisted, and 
looked her all over from head 
to foot; the poor brute's 
knees were trembling and her 
breathing was distressed ; it 
was plain that she could go 
no faster on a hill. God for- 
bid, thought I, that I should 



brutalize this innocent crea- 
ture; let her go at her own 
pace, and let me patiently fol- 
low. 

What that pace was, there 
is no word mean enough to 
describe; it was something as 
much slower than a walk as a 
walk is slower than a run; it 
kept me hanging on each foot 
for an incredible length of 
time; in five minutes it ex- 
hausted the spirit and set up 
a fever in all the muscles of 
the leg. And yet I had to 
keep close at hand and meas- 
ure my advance exactly upon 
hers; for if I dropped a few 
yards into the rear, or went 
on a few yards ahead, Modes- 
tine came instantly to a halt 
and began to browse. The 
thought that this was to last 
from here to Alais nearly 
broke my heart. Of all con- 
ceivable journeys, this prom- 



ised to be the most tedious. I 
tried to tell myself it was a 
lovely day; I tried to charm 
my foreboding spirit with to- 
bacco ; but I had a vision ever 
present to me of the long, 
long roads, up hill and down 
dale, and a pair of figures 
ever infinitesimally moving, 
foot by foot, a yard to the 
minute, and, like things en- 
chanted in r. nightmare, ap- 
proaching no nearer to the 
goal. 

In the meantime there came 
up behind us a tall peasant, 
perhaps forty years of age, of 
an ironical snuffy counten- 
ance, and arrayed in the green 
tail-coat of the country. He 
overtook us hand over hand, 
and stopped to consider our 
pitiful advance. 

"Your donkey," says he, 
"is very old?" 

I told him, I believed not. 



Then, he supposed, we had 
come far. 

I told him, we had but 
newly left Monastier. 

" Et vous marchcz comme 
(a!" cried he; and, throwing 
back his head, he laughed 
long and heartily, I watched 
him, half prepared to feel 
offended, until he had satis- 
fied his mirth; and then, 
"You must have no pity on 
these animals," said he; and, 
plucking a switch out of a 
thicket, he began to lace 
Modestine about the stern- 
works, uttering a cry. The 
rogue pricked up her ears and 
broke into a good round pace, 
which she kept up without 
flagging, and without exhibit- 
ing the least symptom of dis- 
tress, as long as the peasant 
kept beside us. Her former 
panting and shaking had been, 
I regret to say, a piece of 
comedy. 



My dens ex machina, be- 
fore he left me, supplied some 
excellent, if inhumane, ad- 
vice; presented me with the 
switch, which he declared she 
would feel more tenderly than 
my cane; and finally taught 
me the true cry or masonic 
word of donkey - drivers, 
"Proot!" All the time, he 
regarded me with a comical 
incredulous pir, which was 
embarrassing to confront ; and 
smiled over my donkey-driv- 
ing as I might have smiled 
over his orthography, or his 
green tail-coat. But it was 
not my turn for the moment. 

I was proud of my new 
lore, and thought I had 
learned the art to perfection. 
And certainly Modestine did 
wonders for the rest of the 
forenoon, and I had a breath- 
ing space to look about me. 
It was Sabbath; the moun- 
tain-fields were all vacant in 



the sunshine ; and as we came 
down through St. Martin de 
Frugeres, the church was 
crowded to the door, there 
were people kneeling without 
upon the steps, and the sound 
of the priest's chanting came 
forth out of the dim interior. 
It gave me a home feeling on 
the spot ; for I am a country- 
man of the Sabbath, so to 
speak, and all Sabbath obser- 
vances, like a Scotch accent, 
strike in me mixed feelings, 
grateful and the reverse. It is 
only a traveler, hurrying by 
like a person from another 
planet, who can rightly enjoy 
the peace and beauty of the 
great ascetic feast. The sight 
of the resting country does 
his spirit good. There is 
something better than music in 
the wide unusual silence ; and 
it disposes him to amiable 
thoughts, like the sound of a 



little river or the warmth of 
sunlight. 

In this pleasant humor I 
came down the hill to where 
Goudet stands -in the green 
end of a valley, with Chateau 
Beaufort opposite upon a 
rocky steep, and the stream, as 
clear as crystal, lying in a 
deep pool between them. 
Above and below, you may 
hear it wimnling over the 
stones, an amiable stripling of 
a river, which it seems absurd 
to call the Loire. On all 
sides, Goudet is shut in by 
mountains; rocky foot-paths, 
practicable at best for don- 
keys, join it to the outer 
world of France ; and the men 
and wom.en drink and swear, 
in their green corner, or look 
up at the snow-clad peaks in 
winter from the threshold of 
their homes, in an isolation, 
you would think, like that of 



Homer's Cyclops. But it is 
not so; the postman reaches 
Goudet with the letter-bag; 
the aspiring youth of Goudet 
are within a day's walk of the 
railway at Le Puy; and here 
in the inn you may find an 
engraved portrait of the host's 
nephew, Regis Senac, "Pro- 
fessor of Fencing and Cham- 
pion of the two Americas," a 
distinction gained by him, 
along with the sum of five 
hundred dollars, at Tammany 
Hall, New York, on the 10th 
April, 1876. 

I hurried over my midday 
meal, and was early forth 
again. But, alas, as we 
climbed the interminable hill 
upon the other side, "Proot!" 
seemed to have lost its virtue. 
I prooted like a lion, I 
prooted mellifluously like a 
sucking-dove; but Modestine 
would be neither softened nor 



intimidated. She held dog- 
gedly to her pace; nothing 
but a blow would move her, 
and that only for a second. 
I must follow at her heels, in- 
cessantly belaboring. A mo- 
ment's pause in this ignoble 
toil, and she relapsed into her 
own private gait. I think I 
never heard of any one in as' 
mean a situation. I must 
reach the lake of Bouchet, 
where I meant to camp, before 
sundown, and, to have even a 
hope of this, I must instantly 
maltreat this uncomplaining 
animal. The sound of my 
own blows sickened me. Once, 
when I looked at her, she had 
a faint resemblance to a lady 
of my acquaintance who for- 
merly loaded me with kind- 
ness; and this increased my 
horror of my cruelty. 

To make matters worse, we 
encountered another donkey, 

=7 



ranging at will upon the road- 
side; and this other donkey 
chanced to be a gentleman. 
He and Modestine met nick- 
ering for joy, and I had to 
separate the pair and beat 
down their young romance 
with a renewed and feverish 
bastinado. If the other don- 
key had had the heart of a 
male under his hide, he would 
have fallen upon me tooth and 
hoof; and this was a kind of 
consolation — he was plainly 
unworthy of Modestine's af- 
fection. But the incident sad- 
dened me, as did everything 
that spoke of my donkey's 
sex. 

It was blazing hot up the 
valley, windless, with vehe- 
ment sun upon my shoulders ; 
and I had to labor so con- • 
sistently with my stick that 
the sweat ran into my eyes. 
Every five minutes, too, the 
28 



pack, the basket, and the pilot- 
coat would take an ugly slew 
to one side or the other; and 
I had to stop Modestine, just 
when I had got her to a toler- 
able pace of about two miles 
an hour, to tug, push, shoul- 
der, and readjust the load. 
And at last, in the village of 
Ussel, saddle and all, the 
whole hypothec turned round 
and groveled in the dust below 
the donkey's belly. She, none 
better pleased, incontinently 
drew up and seemed to smile ; 
and a party of one man, two 
women, and two children 
came up, and, standing round 
me in a half-circle, encour- 
aged her by their example. 

I had the devil's own 
trouble to get the thing 
righted ; and the instant I had 
done so, without hesitation, it 
toppled and fell down upon 
the other side. Judge if I 



was hot ! And yet not a hand 
was offered to assist me. The 
man, indeed, told me I ought 
to have a package of a differ- 
ent shape. I suggested, if he 
knew nothing better to the 
point in my predicament, he 
might hold his tongue. And 
the good-natured dog agreed 
with me smilingly. It was 
the most despicable fix. I 
must plainly content myself 
with the pack for Modestine, 
and take the following items 
for my own share of the port- 
age: a cane, a quart flask, a 
pilot- jacket heavily weighted 
in the pockets, two pounds of 
black bread, and an open bas- 
ket full of meats and bottles. 
I believe I may say I am not 
devoid of greatness of soul ; 
for I did not recoil from this 
infamous burden. I disposed 
it, Heaven knows how, so as 
to be mildly portable, and 



then proceeded to steer Mo- 
destine through the village. 
She tried, as was indeed her 
invariable habit, to enter 
every house and every court- 
yard in the whole length; 
and, encumbered as I was, 
without a hand to help my- 
self, no words can render an 
idea of my difficulties. A 
priest, with six or seven 
others, was examining a 
church in process of repair, 
and he and his acolytes 
laughed loudly as they saw 
my plight. I remembered hav- 
ing laughed myself when I 
had seen good men struggling 
with adversity in the person 
of a jackass, and the recollec- 
tion filled me with penitence. 
That was in my old light 
days, before this trouble came 
upon me. God knows at least 
that I shall never laugh again, 
thought I. But O, what a 



cruel thing is a farce to those 
engaged in it ! 

A little out of the village 
Modestine, filled with the 
demon, set her heart upon a 
by-road, and positively re- 
fused to leave it. I dropped 
all my bundles, and, I am 
ashamed to say, struck the 
poor sinner twice across the 
face. It was pitiful to see her 
lift up her head with shut 
eyes, as if waiting for another 
blow. I came very near cry- 
ing; but I did a wiser thing 
than that, and sat squarely 
down by the roadside to con- 
sider my situation under the 
cheerful influence of tobacco 
and a nip of brandy. Modes- 
tine, in the meanwhile, 
munched some black bread 
with a contrite hypocritical 
air. It was plain that I must 
make a sacrifice to the gods of 
shipwreck. I threw away the 



empty bottle destined to carry 
milk; I threw away my own 
white bread, and, disdaining 
to act by general average, 
kept the black bread for Mo- 
destine; lastly, I threw away 
the cold leg of mutton and 
the egg-M^hisk, although this 
last was dear to my heart. 
Thus I found room for every- 
thing in the basket, and even 
stowed the boating-coat on 
the top. By means of an end 
of cord I slung it under one 
arm ; and although the cord 
cut my shoulder, and the 
jacket hung almost to the 
ground, it was with a heart 
greatly lightened that I set 
forth again. 

I had now an arm free to 
thrash Modestine, and cruelly 
I chastised her. If I were to 
reach the lakeside before 
dark, she must bestir her little 
shanks to some tune. Already 



the sun had gone down into a 
windy-looking mist; and al- 
though there were still a few 
streaks of gold far off to the 
east on the hills and the black 
fir-woods, all was cold and 
gray about our onward path. 
An infinity of little country 
by-roads led hither and thither 
among the fields. It was the 
most pointless labyrinth. I 
could see my destination over- 
head, or rather the peak that 
dominates it ; but choose as I 
pleased, the roads always 
ended by turning away from 
it, and sneaking back toward 
the valley, or northward 
along the margin of the hills. 
The failing light, the waning 
color, the naked, unhomely, 
stony country through which 
I was traveling, threw me in- 
to some despondency. I prom- 
ise you, the stick was not idle ; 
I think every decent step that 



Modestine took must have 
cost me at least two emphatic 
blows. There was not an- 
other sound in the neighbor- 
hood but that of my unweary- 
ing bastinado. 

Suddenly, in the midst of 
my toils, the load once more 
bit the dust, and, as by en- 
chantment, all the cords were 
simultaneously loosened, and 
the road scattered with my 
dear possessions. The packing 
was to begin again from the 
beginning ; and as I had to in- 
vent a new and better system, 
I do not doubt but I lost half 
an hour. It began to be dusk 
in earnest as I reached a wil- 
derness of turf and stones. It 
had the air of being a road 
which should lead everywhere 
at the same time; and I was 
falling into something not un- 
like despair when I saw two 
figures stalking toward me 



over the stones. They walked 
one behind the other like 
tramps, but their pace was re- 
markable. The son led the 
way, a tall, ill-made, somber, 
Scotch-looking man ; the 
mother followed, all in her 
Sunday's best, with an ele- 
gantly-embroidered ribbon to 
her cap, and a new felt hat 
atop, and proffering, as she 
strode along with kilted petti- 
coats, a string of obscene and 
blasphemous oaths. 

I hailed the son and asked 
him my direction. He pointed 
loosely west and northwest, 
muttered an inaudible com- 
ment, and, without slacking 
his pace for an instant, 
stalked on, as he was going, 
right athwart my path. The 
mother followed without so 
much as raising her head. I 
shouted and shouted after 
them, but they continued to 
36 



scale the hillside, and turned 
a deaf ear to my outcries. At 
last, leaving Modestine by 
herself, I was constrained to 
run after them, hailing the 
while. They stopped' as I 
drew near, the mother still 
cursing; and I could see she 
was a handsome, motherly, 
repectable-loking woman. The 
son once more answered me 
roughly and inaudibly, and 
was for setting out again. 
But this time I simply col- 
lared the mother, who was 
nearest me, and, apologizing 
for my violence, declared that 
I could not let them go until 
they had put me on my road. 
They were neither of them of- 
fended — rather mollified than 
otherwise ; told me I had only 
to follow them; and then the 
mother asked me what I 
wanted by the lake at such an 
hour. I replied, in the Scotch 



manner, by inquiring if she 
had far to go herself. She 
told me, with another oath, 
that she had an hour and a 
half's road before her. And 
then, without salutation, the 
pair strode forward again up 
the hillside in the gathering 
dusk. 

I returned for Modestine, 
pushed her briskly forward, 
and, after a sharp ascent of 
twenty minutes, reached the 
edge of a plateau. The view, 
looking back on my day's 
journey, was both wild and 
sad. Mount Mezenc and the 
peaks beyond St. Julien stood 
out in trenchant gloom against 
a cold glitter in the east ; and 
the intervening field of hills 
had fallen together into one 
broad wash of shadow, except 
here and there the outline of a 
wooded sugar-loaf in black, 
here and there a white irreg- 
38 



ular patch to represent a culti- 
vated farm, and here and 
there a blot where the Loire, 
the Gazeille, or the Lausonne 
wandered in a gorge. 

Soon we were on a high- 
road, and surprise seized on 
my mind as I beheld a village 
of some magnitude close at 
hand; for I had been told 
that the neighborhood of the 
lake was uninhabited except 
by trout. The road smoked in 
the twilight with children 
driving home cattle from the 
fields ; and a pair of mounted 
stride-legged women, hat and 
cap and all, dashed past me at 
a hammering trot from the 
canton where they had been to 
church and market. I asked 
one of the children where I 
was. At Bouchet St. Nicolas, 
he told me. Thither, about 
a mile south of my destina- 
tion, and on the other side of 



a respectable summit, had 
these confused roads and 
treacherous peasantry con- 
ducted me. My shoulder was 
cut, so that it hurt sharply; 
my arm ached like toothache 
from perpetual beating ; I 
gave up the lake and my de- 
sign to camp, and asked for 
the auberge. 



I HAVE A GOAD 

The aiiberge of Bouchet St. 
Nicolas was among the least 
pretentious I have ever vis- 
ited ; but I saw many more of 
the like upon my journey. In- 
deed, it was typical of these 
French highlcinds. Imagine a 
cottage of two stories, with a 
bench before the door; the 
stable and kitchen in a suite, 
so that Modestine and I could 
hear each other dining ; furni- 
ture of the plainest, earthen 
floors, a single bed-chamber 
for travelers, and that with- 
out any convenience but beds. 
In the kitchen cooking and 
eating go forward side by 
side, and the family sleep at 
night. Any one who has a 
fancy to wash must do so in 



public at the common table. 
The food is sometimes spare ; 
hard fish and omelet have 
been my portion more than 
once ; the wine is of the small- 
est, the brandy abominable to 
man ; and the visit of a fat 
sow, grouting under the table 
and rubbing against your legs, 
is no impossible accompani- 
ment to dinner. 

But the people of the inn, 
in nine cases out of ten, show 
themselves friendly and con- 
siderate. As soon as you cross 
the doors you cease to be a 
stranger ; and although this 
peasantry are rude and for- 
bidding on the highway, they 
show a tincture of kind breed- 
ing when you share their 
hearth. At Bouchet, for in- 
stance, I uncorked my bottle 
of Beaujolais, and asked the 
host to join me. He would 
take but a little. 



"I am an amateur of such 
wine, do you see?" he said, 
"and I am capable of leaving 
you not enough," 

In these hedge-inns the 
traveler is expected to eat with 
his own knife ; unless he ask, 
no other will be supplied : 
with a glass, a whang of 
bread, and an iron fork, the 
table is completely laid. My 
knife was cordially admired 
by the landlord of Bouchet, 
and the spring filled him with 
wonder. 

"I should never have 
guessed that," he said. "I 
would bet," he added, weigh- 
ing it in his hand, "that this 
cost you not less than five 
francs." 

When I told him it had cost 
me twenty, his jaw dropped. 

He was a mild, handsome, 
sensible, friendly old man, 
astonishingly ignorant. His 



wife, who was not so pleasant 
in her manners, knew how to 
read, although I do not sup- 
pose she ever did so. She had 
a share of brains and spoke 
with a cutting emphasis, like 
one who ruled the roast. 

"My man knows nothing," 
she said, with an angry nod ; 
"he is like the beasts." 

And the old gentleman sig- 
nified acquiescence with his 
head. There was no contempt 
on her part, and no shame on 
his; the facts were accepted 
loyally, and no more about the 
matter. 

I was tightly cross-exam- 
ined about my journey; and 
the lady understood in a mo- 
ment, and sketched out what 
I should put into my book 
when I got home. "Whether 
people harvest or not in such 
or such a place; if there were 
forests ; studies of manners ; 



what, for example, I and the 
master of the house say to 
you ; the beauties of Nature, 
and all that." And she inter- 
rogated me with a look. 

"It is just that," said I. 

"You see," she added to her 
husband, "I understood that." 

They were both much inter- 
ested by the story of my mis- 
adventures. 

"In the morning," said the 
husband, "I will make you 
something better than your 
cane. Such a beast as that 
feels nothing ; it is in the pro- 
verb — dur comme un dne ; you 
might beat her insensible with 
a cudgel, and yet you would 
arrive nowhere." 

Something better ! I little 
knew what he was offering. 

The sleeping-room was fur- 
nished with two beds. I had 
one; and I will own I was 
a little abashed to find a 



young man and his wife and 
child in the act of mounting 
into the other. This was my 
first experience of the sort ; 
and if I am always to feel 
equally silly and extraneous, 
I pray God it be my last as 
well. I kept my eyes to my- 
self, and know nothing of the 
woman except that she had 
beautiful arms, and seemed no 
whit abashed by my appear- 
ance. As a matter of fact, the 
situation was more trying to 
me than to the pair. A pair 
keep each other in counte- 
nance; it is the single gentle- 
man who has to blush. But I 
could not help attributing my 
sentiments to the husband, and 
sought to conciliate his toler- 
ance with a cup of brandy 
from my flask. He told me 
that he was a cooper of Alais 
traveling to St. Etienne in 
search of work, and that in his 
46 



spare moments he followed 
the fatal calling of a maker of 
matches. Me he readily 
enough divined to be a brandy 
merchant. 

I was up first in the morn- 
ing (Monday, September 
23d), and hastened my toilet 
guiltily, so as to leave a clear 
field for madam, the cooper's 
wife. I drank a bowl of milk, 
and set off to explore the 
neighborhood of Bouchet. It 
was perishing cold, a gray, 
windy, wintry morning ; misty 
clouds flew fast and low; the 
wind piped over the naked 
platform; and the only speck 
of color was away behind 
Mount Mezenc and the east- 
ern hills, where the sky still 
wore the orange of the dawn. 

It was five in the morning, 
and four thousand feet above 
the sea ; and I had to bury my 
hands in my pockets and trot. 



People were trooping out to 
the labors of the field by twos 
and threes, and all turned 
round to stare upon the 
stranger. I had seen them 
coming back last night, I saw 
them going afield again; and 
there was the life of Bouchet 
in a nutshell. 

When I came back to the 
inn for a bit of breakfast, the 
landlady was in the kitchen 
combing out her daughter's 
hair ; and I made her my com- 
pliments upon its beauty. 

"O no," said the mother; 
"it is not so beautiful as it 
ought to be. Look, it is too 
fine." 

Thus does a wise peasantry 
console itself under adverse 
physical circumstances, and, 
by a startling democratic pro- 
cess, the defects of the ma- 
jority decide the type of 
beauty. 

48 



"And where," said I, "is 
monsieur?" 

"The master of the house is 
up-stairs," she answered, 
"making you a goad." 

Blessed be the man who in- 
vented goads ! Blessed the 
innkeeper of Bouchet St. Ni- 
colas, who introduced me to 
their use ! This plain wand, 
with an eighth of an inch of 
pin, was indeed a scepter when 
he put it in my hands. Thence- 
forward Modestine was my 
slave. A prick, and she passed 
the most inviting stable-door. 
A prick, and she broke forth 
into a gallant little trotlet that 
devoured the miles. It was 
not a remarkable speed, when 
all was said ; and we took four 
hours to cover ten miles at the 
best of it. But what a heav- 
enly change since yesterday ! 
No more wielding of the ugly 
cudgel ; no more flailing with 



an aching arm ; no more 
broadsword exercise, but a dis- 
creet and gentlemanly fence. 
And what although now and 
then a drop of blood should 
appear on Modestine's mouse- 
colored wedge-like rump? I 
should have preferred it other- 
wise, indeed ; but yesterday's 
exploits had purged my heart 
of all humanity. The per- 
verse little devil, since she 
would not be taken with kind- 
ness, must even go with prick- 
ing. 

It was bleak and bitter cold, 
and, except a cavalcade of 
stride-legged ladies and a pair 
of post-runners, the road was 
dead solitary all the way to 
Pradelles. I scarce remember 
an incident but one. A hand- 
some foal with a bell about his 
neck came charging up to us 
upon a stretch of common, 
sniflFed the air martiallv as one 



about to do great deeds, and, 
suddenly thinking otherwise 
in his green young heart, put 
about and galloped off as he 
had come, the bell tinkling in 
the wind. For a long while 
afterward I saw his noble atti- 
tude as he drew up, and heard 
the note of his bell ; and when 
I struck the highroad, the 
song of the telegraph-wires 
seemed to continue the same 
music. 

Pradelles stands on a hill- 
side, high above the Allier, 
surrounded by rich meadows. 
They were cutting aftermath 
on all sides, which gave the 
neighborhood, this gusty au- 
tumn morning, an untimely 
smell of hay. On the opposite 
bank of the Allier the land 
kept mounting for miles to the 
horizon : a tanned and sallow 
autumn landscape, with black 
blots of fir-wood and white 



roads wandering through the 
hills. Over all this the clouds 
shed a uniform and purplish 
shadow, sad and somewhat 
menacing, exaggerating height 
and distance, and throwing in- 
to still higher relief the 
twisted ribbons of the high- 
way. It was a cheerless pros- 
pect, but one stimulating to 
a traveler. For I was now 
upon the limit of Velay, and 
all that I beheld lay in an- 
other county — wild Gevaudan, 
mountainous, uncultivated, and 
bjit recently disforested from 
terror of the wolves. 

Wolves, alas, like bandits, 
seem to flee the traveler's ad- 
vance ; and you may trudge 
through all our comfortable 
Europe, and not meet with an 
adventure worth the name. 
But here, if anywhere, a man 
was on the frontiers of hope. 
For this was the land of the 



ever-memorable Beast, the 
Napoleon Buonaparte of 
wolves. What a career was 
his ! He lived ten months at 
free quarters in Gevaudan and 
Vivarais; he ate women and 
children and "shepherdesses 
celebrated for their beauty" ; 
he pursued armed horsemen; 
he has been seen at broad 
noonday chasing a post-chaise 
and outrider along the king's 
highroad, and chaise and out- 
rider fleeing before him at the 
gallop. He was placarded 
like a political offender, and 
ten thousand francs were of- 
fered for his head. And yet, 
when he was shot and sent to 
Versailles, behold ! a common 
wolf, and even small for that. 
"Though I could reach from 
pole to pole," sang Alexander 
Pope; the little corporal 
shook Europe; and if all 
wolves had been as this wolf. 



they would have changed the 
history of man. M. Elie Ber- 
thet has made him the hero of 
a novel, which I have read, 
and do not wish to read again. 
I hurried over my lunch, 
and was proof against the 
landlady's desire that I should 
visit our Lady of Pradelles, 
"who performed many mi- 
racles, although she was of 
wood" ; and before three 
quarters of an hour I was 
goading Modestine down the 
steep descent that leads to 
Langogne on the Allier. On 
both sides of the road, in big 
dusty fields, farmers were pre- 
paring for next spring. Every 
fifty yards a yoke of great- 
necked stolid oxen were pa- 
tiently haling at the plow. I 
saw one of these mild, formi- 
dable servants of the glebe, 
who took a sudden interest in 
Modestine and me. The- fur- 



row down which he was jour- 
neying lay at an angle to the 
road, and his head was solidly 
fixed to the yoke like those of 
caryatides below a ponderous 
cornice ; but he screwed round 
his big honest eyes and fol- 
lowed us with a ruminating 
look, until his master bade 
him turn the plow and pro- 
ceed to reascend the field. 
From all these furrowing 
plowshares, from the feet of 
oxen, from a laborer here and 
there who was breaking the 
dry clods with a hoe, the wind 
carried away a thin dust like 
so much smoke. It was a fine, 
busy, breathing, rustic land- 
scape; and as I continued to 
descend, the highlands of Ge- 
vaudan kept mounting in 
front of me against the sky. 

I had crossed the Loire the 
day before ; now I was to 
cross the Allier; so near are 



these two confluents in their 
youth. Just at the bridge of 
Langogne, as the long-prom- 
ised rain was beginning to 
fall, a lassie of some seven or 
eight addressed me in the sac- 
ramental phrase. " D'ou'st 
que vous venez?" She did it 
with so high an air that she 
set me laughing; and this cut 
her to the quick. She was 
evidently one who reckoned 
on respect, and stood looking 
after me in silent dudgeon, as 
I crossed the bridge and en- 
tered the county of Gevaudan. 



56 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 

" The rvay also here 2vas very ivearisoine 
thj'ough dirt and slabhiness ; nor was there 
on all this ground so inuch as one inn or 
victualling-house "wherein to refresh the 
fe&,ler sort. " — Pilgkjm's Progress. 



A CAMP IN THE DARK 

The next day (Tuesday, Sep- 
tember 24th), it was two 
o'clock in the afternoon before 
I got my journal written up 
and my knapsack repaired, 
for I was determined to carry 
my knapsack in the future 
and have no more ado with 
baskets; and half an hour 
afterward I set out for Le 
Cheylard I'Eveque, a place on 
the borders of the forest of 
Mercoire. A man, I was told, 
should walk there in an hour 
and a half; and I thought it 



scarce too ambitious to sup- 
pose that a man encumbered 
with a donkey might cover the 
same distance in four hours. 

All the way up the long hill 
from Langogne it rained and 
hailed alternately; the wind 
kept freshening steadily, al- 
though slowly ; plentiful hur- 
rying clouds — some dragging 
veils of straight rain-shower, 
others massed and luminous, 
as though promising snow — 
careered out of the north and 
followed me along my way. 
I was soon out of the culti- 
vated basin of the Allier, and 
away from the plowing oxen, 
and such-like sights of the 
country. Moor, heathery 
marsh, tracts of rock and 
pines, woods of birch all jew- 
eled with the autumn yellow, 
here and there a few naked 
cottages and bleak fields, — 
these were the characters of 



the country. Hill and valley 
followed valley and hill ; the 
little green and stony cattle- 
tracks wandered in and out of 
one another, split into three or 
four, died away in marshy hol- 
lows, and began again spo- 
radically on hillsides or at the 
borders of a wood. 

There was no direct road to 
Cheylard, and it was no easy 
affair to make a passage in 
this uneven country and 
through this intermittent laby- 
rinth of tracks. It must 
have been about four when I 
struck Sagnerousse, and went 
on my way rejoicing in a sure 
point of departure. Two 
hours afterward, the dusk 
rapidly falling, in a lull of 
the wind, I issued from a fir- 
wood where I had long been 
wandering, and found, not the 
looked-for village, but another 
marish bottom among rough- 



and-tumble hills. For some 
time past I had heard the 
ringing of cattle-bells ahead ; 
and now, as I came out of the 
skirts of the wood, I saw near 
upon a dozen cows and per- 
haps as many more black fig- 
ures, which I conjectured to 
be children, although the mist 
had almost unrecognizably ex- 
aggerated their forms. These 
were all silently following 
each .other round and round 
in a circle, now taking hands, 
now breaking up with chains 
and reverences. A dance of 
children appeals to very inno- 
cent and lively thoughts ; but, 
at nightfall on the marshes, 
the thing was eerie and fan- 
tastic to behold. Even I, who 
am well enough read in Her- 
bert Spencer, felt a sort of 
silence fall for an instant on 
my mind. The next, I was 
pricking Modestine forward, 



and guiding her like an unruly 
ship through the open. In a 
path, she went doggedly 
ahead of her own accord, as 
before a fair wind ; but once 
on the turf or among heather, 
and the brute became de- 
mented. The tendency of lost 
travelers to go round in a cir- 
cle was developed in her to 
the degree of passion, and it 
took all the steering I had in 
me to keep even a decently 
straight course through a 
single field. 

While I was thus despe- 
rately tacking through the bog, 
children and cattle began to 
disperse, until only a pair of 
girls remained behind. From 
these I sought direction on my 
path. The peasantry in gen- 
eral were but little disposed to 
counsel a wayfarer. One old 
devil simply retired into his 
house, and barricaded the door 

6i 



on my approach ; and I might 
beat and shout myself hoarse, 
he turned a deaf ear. An- 
other, having given me a di- 
rection which, as I found 
afterward, I had misunder- 
stood, complacently watched 
me going wrong without add- 
ing a sign. He did not care 
a stalk of parsley if I wan- 
dered all night upon the hills ! 
As for these two girls, they 
were a pair of impudent sly 
sluts, with not a thought but 
mischief. One put out her 
tongue at me, the other bade 
me follow the cows; and they 
both giggled and jogged each 
other's elbows. The Beast of 
Gevaudan ate about a hundred 
children of this district ; I be- 
gan to think of him with sym- 
pathy. 

Leaving the girls, I pushed 
on through the bog, and got 
into another wood and upon 



a well-marked road. It grew 
darker and darker. Modes- 
tine, suddenly beginning to 
smell mischief, bettered the 
pace of her own accord, and 
from that time forward gave 
me no trouble. It was the 
first sign of intelligence I had 
occasion to remark in her. At 
the same time, the wind fresh- 
ened into half a gale, and an- 
other heavy discharge of rain 
came flying up out of the 
north. At the other side of the 
wood I sighted some red win- 
dows in the dusk. This was 
the hamlet of Fouzilhic ; three 
houses on a hillside, near a 
wood of birches. Here I 
found a delightful old man, 
who came a little way with me 
in the rain to put me safely on 
the road for Cheylard. He 
would hear of no reward ; but 
shook his hands above his 
head almost as if in menace, 
63 



and refused volubly and 
shrilly, in unmitigated patois. 
All seemed right at last. 
My thoughts began to turn 
upon dinner and a fireside, 
and my heart was agreeably 
softened in my bosom. Alas, 
and I was on the brink of new 
and greater miseries ! Sud- 
denly, at a single swoop, the 
night fell. I have been 
abroad in many a black night, 
but never in a blacker. A 
glimmer of rocks, a glimmer 
of the track where it was well 
beaten, a certain fleecy density, 
or night within night, for a 
tree, — this was all that I 
could discriminate. The sky 
was simply darkness over- 
head ; even the flying clouds 
pursued their way invisibly to 
human eyesight. I could not 
distinguish my hand at arm's 
length from the track, nor 
my goad, at the same dis- 
64 



tance, from the meadows or 
the sky. 

Soon the road that I was 
following split, after the fash- 
ion of the country, into three 
or four in a piece of rocky 
meadow. Since Modestine had 
shown such a fancy for beaten 
roads, I tried her instinct in 
this predicament. But the in- 
stinct of an ass is what might 
be expected, from the name; 
in half a minute she was 
clambering round and round 
among some boulders, as lost 
a donkey as you would wish 
to see. I should have camped 
long before had I been prop- 
erly provided ; but as this was 
to be so short a stage, I had 
brought no wine, no bread for 
myself, and a little over a 
pound for my lady- friend. 
Add to this, that I and Mo- 
destine were both handsomely 
wetted by the showers. But 



now, if I could have found 
some water, I should have 
camped at once in spite of all. 
Water, however, being en- 
tirely absent, except in the 
form of rain, I determined to 
return to Fouzilhic, and ask a 
guide a little further on my 
way — "a little farther lend 
thy guiding hand.' 

The thing was easy to de- 
cide, hard to accomplish. In 
this sensible roaring blackness 
I was sure of nothing but the 
direction of the wind. To 
this I set my face; the road 
had disappeared, and I went 
across country, now in marshy 
opens, now baffled by walls 
unscalable to Modestine, until 
I came once more in sight of 
some red windows. This time 
they were differently dis- 
posed. It was not Fouzilhic, 
but Fouzilhac, a hamlet little 
distant from the other in 



space, but worlds away in the 
spirit of its inhabitants. I tied 
Modestine to a gate, and 
groped forward, stumbling 
among rocks, plunging mid- 
leg in bog, until I gained the 
entrance of the village. In 
the first lighted house there 
was a woman who would not 
open to me. She could do 
nothing, she cried to me 
through the aoor, being alone 
and lame; but if I would 
apply at the next house, there 
was a man who could help me 
if he had a mind. 

They came to the next door 
in force, a man, two women, 
and a girl, and brought a pair 
of lanterns to examine the 
wayfarer. The man was not 
ill-looking, but had a shifty 
smile. He leaned against the 
door-post, and heard me state 
my case. All I asked was a 
guide as far as Cheylard. 
67 



"C'est que, voyez-vous, il 
fait noir," said he. 

I told him that was just my 
reason for requiring help. 

"I understand that," said 
he, looking uncomfortable ; 
" mais — c'est — de la peine." 

I was willing to pay, I said. 
He shook his head. I rose as 
high as ten francs; but he 
continued to shake his head. 
"Name your own price, 
then," said I. 

" Ce n'est pas ga," he said 
at length, and with evident 
difficulty; "but I am not 
going to cross the door — mais 
je ne sortirai pas de la porte." 

I grew a little warm, and 
asked him what he proposed 
that I should do. 

"Where are you going be- 
yond Cheylard?" he asked by 
way of answer. 

"That is no affair of 
yours," I returned, for I was 

68 



not going to indulge his 
bestial curiosity; "it changes 
nothing in my present pre- 
dicament." 

''C'est vrai, ga," he ac- 
knowledged, with a laugh; 
*' out, c'est vrai. Et d'ou 
venez-vous?" 

A better man than I might 
have felt nettled. 

"Oh," said I, "I am not 
going to answer any of your 
questions, so you may spare 
yourself the trouble of put- 
ting them. I am late enough 
already; I want help. If you 
will not guide me yourself, at 
least help me to find some one 
else who will." 

"Hold on," he cried sud- 
denly. "Was it not you who 
passed in the meadow while it 
was still day?" 

"Yes, yes," said the girl, 
whom I had not hitherto 
recognized; "it was mon- 
69 



sieur; I told him to follow 
the cow." 

"As for you, mademoiselle," 
said I, "you are a farceuse." 

"And," added the man, 
"what the devil have you done 
to be still here?" 

What the devil, indeed ! 
But there I was. "The great 
thing" said I, "is to make an 
end of it" ; and once more 
proposed that he should help 
me to find a guide. 

"C'est que," he said again, 
" c'est que — il fait noir." 

"Very well," said I; "take 
one of your lanterns." 

"No," he cried, drawing a 
thought backward, and again 
intrenching himself behind 
one of his former phrases; "I 
will not cross the door." 

I looked at him. I saw un- 
affected terror struggling on 
his face with unaffected 
shame ; he was smiling piti- 



fully and wetting his lip with 
his tongue, like a detected 
school-boy. I drew a brief 
picture of my state, and asked 
him what I was to do. 

*'I don't know," he said; 
"I will not cross the door." 

Here was the Beast of Ge- 
vaudan, and no mistake. 

"Sir," said I, with my most 
commanding manners "you 
are a coward." 

And with that I turned my 
back upon the family party, 
who hastened to retire within 
their fortifications; and the 
famous door was closed again, 
but not till I had overheard 
the sound of laughter. Filia 
barbara pater barbarior. Let 
me say it in the plural: the 
Beasts of Gevaudan. 

The lanterns had somewhat 
dazzled me, and I plowed dis- 
tressfully among stones and 
rubbish-heaps. All the other 



houses in the village were both 
dark and silent; and though 
I knocked at here and there a 
door, my knocking was un- 
answered. It was a bad busi- 
ness; I gave up Fouzilhac 
with my curses. The rain had 
stopped, and the wind, which 
still kept rising, began to dry 
my coat and trousers. "Very 
well," thought I, "water or 
no water, I must camp." But 
the first thing was to return to 
Modestine. I am pretty sure 
I was twenty minutes groping 
for my lady in the dark; and 
if it had not been for the un- 
kindly services of the bog, 
into which I once more stum- 
bled, I might have still been 
groping for her at the dawn. 
My next business was to gain 
the shelter of a wood, for the 
wind was cold as well as bois- 
terous. How, in this well- 
wooded district, I should have 



been so long in finding one, is 
another of the insoluble mys- 
teries of this day's adventures ; 
but I will take my oath that I 
put near an hour to the dis- 
covery. 

At last black trees began to 
show upon my left, and, sud- 
denly crossing the road, made 
a cave of unmitigated black- 
ness right in front. I call it 
a cave without exaggeration ; 
to pass below that arch of 
leaves was like entering a 
dungeon. I felt about until 
my hand encountered a stout 
branch, and to this I tied Mo- 
destine, a haggard, drenched, 
desponding donkey. Then I 
lowered my pack, laid it along 
the wall on the margin of the 
•road, and unbuckled the 
straps. I knew well enough 
where the lantern was; but 
where were the candles? I 
groped and groped among the 

73 



tumbled articles, and, while I 
was thus groping, suddenly I 
touched the spirit-lamp. Sal- 
vation ! This would serve my 
turn as well. The wind 
roared unwearyingly among 
the trees; I could hear the 
boughs tossing and the leaves 
churning through half a mile 
of forest ; yet the scene of my 
encampment was not only as 
black as the pit, but admir- 
ably sheltered. At the second 
match the wick caught flame. 
The light was both livid and 
shifting; but it cut me ofiE 
from the universe, and 
doubled the darkness of the 
surrounding night. 

I tied Modestine more con- 
veniently for herself, and 
broke up half the black bread 
for her supper, reserving the 
other half against the morn- 
ing. Then I gathered what I 



should want within reach, 
took off my wet boots and 
gaiters, which I wrapped in 
my waterproof, arranged my 
knapsack for a pillow under 
the flap of my sleeping-bag, 
insinuated my limbs into the 
interior, and buckled myself 
in like a hamhino. I opened 
a tin of Bologna sausage and 
broke a cake of chocolate, 
and that was all I had to eat. 
It may sound offensive, but I 
ate them together, bite by bite, 
by way of bread and meat. 
All I had to wash down this 
revolting mixture was neat 
brandy: a revolting beverage 
in itself. But I was rare and 
hungry; ate well, and smoked 
one of the best cigarettes in 
my experience. Then I put a 
stone in my straw hat, pulled 
the flap of my fur cap over 
my neck and eyes, put my re- 



volver ready to my hand, and 
snuggled well down among 
the sheepskins. 

I questioned at lirst if I 
were sleepy, for I felt my 
heart beating faster than 
usual, as if with an agreeable 
excitement to which my mind 
remained a stranger. But as 
soon as my eyelids touched, 
that subtle glue leaped be- 
tween them, and they would 
no more come separate. 

The wind among the trees 
was my lullaby. Sometimes it 
sounded for minutes together 
with a steady, even rush, not 
rising nor abating ; and again 
it would swell and burst like 
a great crashing breaker, and 
the trees would patter me all 
over with big drops from the 
rain of the afternoon. Night 
after night, in my own bed- 
room in the country, I have 
given ear to this perturbing 
76 



concert of the wind among the 
woods; but whether it was a 
difference in the trees, or the 
lie of the ground, or because I 
was myself outside and in the 
midst of it, the fact remains 
that the wind sang to a differ- 
ent tune among these woods 
of Gevaudan. I hearkened 
and hearkened ; and mean- 
while sleep took gradual pos- 
session of my body and sub- 
dued my thoughts and senses ; 
but still my last waking effort 
was to listen and distinguish, 
and my last conscious state 
was one of wonder at the for- 
eign clamor in my ears. 

Twice in the course of the 
dark hours — once when a 
stone galled me underneath 
the sack, and again when the 
poor, patient Modestine, 
growing angry, pawed and 
stamped upon the road — I 
was recalled for a brief while 



to consciousness, and saw a 
star or two overhead, and the 
lace-like edge of the foliage 
against the sky. When I 
awoke for the third time 
(Wednesday, September 25), 
the world was flooded with a 
blue light, the mother of the 
dawn. I saw the leaves la- 
boring in the wind and the rib- 
bon of the road ; and, on turn- 
ing my head, there was Mo- 
destine tied to a beech, and 
standing half across the path 
in an attitude of inimitable 
patience. I closed my eyes 
again, and set to thinking over 
the experience of the night. 
I was surprised to find how 
easy and pleasant it had been, 
even in this tempestuous 
weather. The stone which 
annoyed me would not have 
been there, had I not been 
forced to camp blindfold in 
the opaque night ; and I had 
78 



felt no other inconvenience, 
except when my feet encoun- 
tered the lantern or the second 
volume of Peyrat's Pastors of 
the Desert among the mixed 
contents of my sleeping-bag; 
nay more, I had felt not a 
touch of cold, and awakened 
with unusually lightsome and 
clear sensations. 

With that, I shook myself, 
got once moie into my boots 
and gaiters, and, breaking up 
the rest of the bread for Mo- 
destine, strolled about to see 
in what part of the world I 
had awakened. Ulysses, left 
on Ithaca, and with a mind 
unsettled by the goddess, was 
not more pleasantly astray. I 
have been after an adventure 
all my life, a pure dispassion- 
ate adventure, such as befell 
early and heroic voyagers ; 
and thus to be found by 
morning in a random wood- 



side nook in Gevaudan — not 
knowing north from south, as 
strange to my surroundings as 
the first man upon the earth, 
an inland castaway — was to 
find a fraction of my day- 
dreams realized. I was on the 
skirts of a little wood of 
birch, sprinkled with a few 
beeches; behind, it adjoined 
another wood of fir; and in 
front, it broke up and went 
down in open order into a 
shallow and meadowy dale. 
All around there were bare 
hill-tops, some near, some far 
away, as the perspective closed 
or opened, but none appar- 
ently much higher than the 
rest. The wind huddled the 
trees. The golden specks of 
autumn in the birches tossed 
shiveringly. Overhead the sky 
was full of strings and shreds 
of vapor, flying, vanishing, re- 
appearing, and turning about 
80 



an axis like tumblers, as the 
wind hounded them through 
heaven. It was wild weather 
and famishing cold. I ate 
some chocolate, swallowed a 
mouthful of brandy, and 
smoked a cigarette before the 
cold should have time to dis- 
able my fingers. And by the 
time I had got all this done, 
and had made my pack and 
bound it on the pack-saddle, 
the day was tiptoe on the 
threshold of the east. We had 
not gone many steps along the 
lane, before the sun, still in- 
visible to me, sent a glow of 
gold over some cloud moun- 
tains that lay ranged along 
the eastern sky. 

The wind had us on the 
stern, and hurried us bitingly 
forward. I buttoned myself 
into my coat, and walked on 
in a pleasant frame of mind 
with all men, when suddenly, 



at a corner, there was Fouzil- 
hic once more in front of me. 
Nor only that, but there was 
the old gentleman who had 
escorted me so far the night 
before, running out of his 
house at sight of me, with 
hands upraised in horror. 

"My poor boy!" he cried, 
"what does this mean?" 

I told him what had hap- 
pened. He beat his old hinds 
like clappers in a mill, to think 
how lightly he had let me go ; 
but when he heard of the man 
of Fouzilhac, anger and de- 
pression seized upon his mind. 

"This time, at least," said 
he, "there shall be no mis- 
take." 

And he limped along, for 
he was very rheumatic, for 
about half a mile, and until I 
was almost within sight of 
Cheylard, the destination I 
had hunted for so long. 



CHEYLARD AND LUC 

Candidly, it seemed little 
worthy of all this searching. 
A few broken ends of village, 
with no particular street, but 
a succession of open places 
heaped with logs and fagots; 
a couple of tilted crosses, a 
shrine to our Lady of all 
Graces on the summit of a lit- 
tle hill ; and all this, upon a 
rattling highland river, in the 
corner of a naked valley. 
What went ye out for to see? 
thought I to myself. But the 
place had a life of its own. 
I found a board commemorat- 
ing the liberalities of Chey- 
lard for the past year, hung 
up, like a banner, in the di- 
minutive and tottering church. 
In 1877, it appeared, the in- 
83 



habitants subscribed forty- 
eight francs ten centimes for 
the "Work of the Propaga- 
tion of the Faith." Some of 
this, I could not help hoping, 
would be applied to my na- 
tive land. Cheylard scrapes 
together halfpence for the 
darkened souls in Edinburgh ; 
while Balquidder and Dun- 
rossness bemoan the ignorance 
of Rome. Thus, to the high 
entertainment of the angels, 
do we pelt each other with 
evangelists, like school-boys 
bickering in the snow. 

The inn was again singu- 
larly unpretentious. The 
whole furniture of a not ill- 
to-do family was in the 
kitchen : the beds, the cradle, 
the clothes, the plate-rack, the 
meal-chest, and the photo- 
graph of the parish priest. 
There were five children, one 
of whom was set to its morn- 
84 



ing prayers at the stair-foot 
soon after my arrival, and a 
sixth would erelong be forth- 
coming. I was kindly received 
by these good folk. They 
were much interested in my 
misadvent\ire.^ The wood in 
which I had slept belonged to 
them ; the man of Fouzilhac 
they thought a monster of in- 
iquity, and counseled me 
warmly to summon him at 
law — "because I might have 
died." The good wife was 
horror-stricken to see me 
drink over a pint of un- 
creamed milk. 

"You will do yourself an 
evil," she said. "Permit me 
to boil it for you." 

After I had begun the 
morning on this delightful 
liquor, she having an infinity 
of things to arrange, I was 
permitted, nay requested, to 
make a bowl of chocolate for 
85 



myself. My boots and gaiters 
were hung up to dry, and see- 
ing me trying to write my 
journal on my knee, the eldest 
daughter let down a hinged 
table in the chimney-corner 
for my conveniepfie... Here I 
wrote, drank my chocolate, 
and finally ate an omelet be- 
fore I left. The table was 
thick with dust; for, as they 
explained, it was not used ex- 
cept in winter weather. I had 
a clear look up the vent, 
through brown agglomerations 
of soot and blue vapor, to the 
sky ; and whenever a handful 
of twigs was thrown on to the 
fire, my legs were scorched by 
the blaze. 

The husband had begun 
life as a muleteer, and when 
I came to charge Modestine 
showed himself full of the 
prudence of his art. "You 
will have to change this pack- 

86 



age," said he; "it ought to be 
in two parts, and then you 
might have double the 
weight." 

I explained that I wanted 
no more weight; and for no 
donkey hitherto created would 
I cut my sleeping-bag in two. 

"It fatigues her, however," 
said the innkeeper; "it fa- 
tigues her greatly on the 
march. Look." 

Alas, there were her two 
forelegs no better than raw 
beef on the inside, and blood 
was running from under her 
tail. They told me when I 
left, and I was ready to be- 
lieve it, that before a few days 
I should come to love Modes- 
tine like a dog. Three days 
had passed, we had shared 
some misadventures, and my 
heart was still as cold as a 
potato toward my beast of 
burden. She was pretty enough 



to look at ; but then she had 
given proof of dead stupidity, 
redeemed indeed by patience, 
but aggravated by flashes of 
sorry and ill-judged light- 
heartedness. And I own this 
new discovery seemed another 
point against her. What the 
devil was the good of a she- 
ass if she could not carry a 
sleeping-bag and a few nec- 
essaries? I saw the end of 
the fable rapidly approach- 
ing, when I should have to 
carry Modestine. JEsop was 
the man to know the world ! 
I assure you I set out with 
heavy thoughts upon my short 
day's march. 

It was not only heavy 
thoughts about Modestine 
that weighted me upon the 
way; it was a leaden business 
altogether. For first, the wind 
blew so rudely that I had to 
hold on the pack with one 



i 



hand from Cheylard to Luc; 
and second, my road lay 
through one of the most beg- 
garly countries in the world. 
It was like the worst of the 
Scotch Highlands, only worse ; 
cold, naked, and ignoble, scant 
of wood, scant of heather, 
scant of life, A road and 
some fences broke the unvary- 
ing waste, and the line of the 
road was marked by upright 
pillars, to serve in time of 
snow. 

Why any one should desire 
to visit either Luc or Chey- 
lard is more than my much- 
inventing spirit can suppose. 
For my part, I travel not to 
go anywhere, but to go. I 
travel for travel's sake. The 
great affair is to move; to 
feel the needs and hitches of 
our life more nearly; to come 
down off this feather-bed of 
civilization, and find the globe 
89 



granite underfoot and strewn 
with cutting flints. Alas, as 
we get up in life, and are 
more preoccupied with our af- 
fairs, even a holiday is a thing 
that must be worked for. To 
hold a pack upon a pack-sad- 
dle against a gale out of the 
freezing north is no high in- 
dustry, but it is one that serves 
to occupy and compose the 
mind. And when the pres- 
ent is so exacting, who can 
annoy himself about the fu- 
ture? 

I came out at length above 
the Allier. A more unsightly 
prospect at this season of the 
year it would be hard to fancy. 
Shelving hills rose round it on 
all sides, here dabbled with 
wood and fields, there rising 
to peaks alternately naked 
and hairy with pines. The 
color throughout was black or 
ashen, and came to a point in 
90 



the ruins of the castle of Luc, 
which pricked up impudently 
from below my feet, carrying 
on a pinnacle a tall white 
statue of our Lady, which, I 
heard with interest, weighed 
fifty quintals, and was to be 
dedicated on the 6th of Oc- 
tober. Through this sorry 
landscape trickled the Allier 
and a tributary of nearly equal 
size, which came down to join 
it through a broad nude valley 
in Vivarais. The weather had 
somewhat lightened, and the 
clouds massed in squadron; 
but the fierce wind still hunted 
them through heaven, and cast 
great ungainly splashes of 
shadow and sunlight over the 
scene. 

Luc itself was a straggling 
double file of houses wedged 
between hill and river. It 
had no beauty, nor was there 
any notable feature, save the 



old castle overhead with its 
fifty quintals of brand-new 
Madonna. But the inn was 
clean and large. The kitchen, 
with its two box-beds hung 
with clean check curtains, with 
its wide stone chimney, its 
chimney-shelf four yards long 
and garnished with lanterns 
and religious statuettes, its 
array of chests and pair of 
ticking clocks, was the very 
model of what a kitchen ought 
to be; a melodrama kitchen, 
suitable for bandits or noble- 
men in disguise. Nor was the 
scene disgraced by the land- 
lady, a handsome, silent, dark 
old woman, clothed and 
hooded in black like a nun. 
Even the public bedroom had 
a character of its own, with the 
long deal tables and benches, 
where fifty might have dined, 
set out as for a harvest-home, 
and the three box-beds along 
92 



the wall. In one of these, 
lying on straw and covered 
with a pair of table-napkins, 
did I do penance all night 
long in goose-flesh and chat- 
tering teeth, and sigh from 
time to time as I awakened 
for my sheepskin sack and the 
lee of some great wood. 



93 



OUR LADY OF 
THE SNOWS 



" I behold 
The House, the Brotherhood austere— 
A nd what am I, that I am here? " 

Matthew Arnold 



FATHER APOLLINARIS 

Next morning (Thursday, 
26th September) I took the 
road in a new order. The 
sack was no longer doubled, 
but hung at full length across 
the saddle, a green sausage six 
feet long with a tuft of blue 
wool hanging out of either 
end. It was more picturesque, 
it spared the donkey, and, as 
I began to see, it would insure 
stability, blow high, blow low. 



But it was not without a pang 
that I had so decided. For 
although I had purchased a 
new cord, and made all as 
fast as I was able, I was yet 
jealously uneasy lest the flaps 
should tumble out and scatter 
my effects along the line of 
march. 

My way lay up the bald val- 
ley of the river, along the 
march of Vivarais and Gevau- 
dan. The hills of Gevaudan 
on the right were a little more 
naked, if anything, than those 
of Vivarais upon the left, and 
the former had a monopoly of 
a low dotty underwood that 
grew thickly in the gorges and 
died out in solitary burrs upon 
the shoulders and the sum- 
mits. Black bricks of fir-wood 
were plastered here and there 
upon both sides, and here and 
there were cultivated fields. 
A railway ran beside the river ; 



the only bit of railway in 
Gevaudan, although there are 
many proposals afoot and sur- 
veys being made, and even, as 
they tell me, a station stand- 
ing ready-built in Mende. A 
year or two hence and this 
may be another w^orld. The 
desert is beleaguered. Now 
may some Languedocian 
Wordsworth turn the sonnet 
into patois: "Mountains and 
vales and floods, heard ye 
that whistle?" 

At a place called La Bas- 
tide I was directed to leave 
the river, and follow a road 
that mounted on the left 
among the hills of Vivarais, 
the modern Ardeche; for I 
was now come within a little 
way of my strange destina- 
tion, the Trappist monastery 
of our Lady of the Snows. 
The sun came out as I left 
the shelter of a pine-wood, 
96 



and I beheld suddenly a fine 
wild landscape to the south. 
High rocky hills, as blue as 
sapphire, closed the view, and 
between these lay ridge upon 
ridge, heathery, craggy, the 
sun glittering on veins of rock, 
the underwood clambering in 
the hollows, as rude as God 
made them at the first. There 
was not a sign of man's hand 
in all the prospect ; and in- 
deed not a trace of his pas- 
sage, save where generation 
after generation had walked 
in twisted foot-paths, in and 
out among the beeches, and 
up and down upon the chan- 
neled slopes. The mists, 
which had hitherto beset me, 
were now broken into clouds, 
and fled swiftly and shone 
brightly in the sun. I drew 
a long breath. It was grate- 
ful to come, after so long, 
upon a scene of some attrac- 

7 97 



tion for the human heart. I 
own I like definite form in 
what my eyes are to rest up- 
on ; and if landscapes were 
sold, like the sheets of char- 
acters of my boyhood, one 
penny plain and twopence col- 
ored, I should go the length of 
twopence every day of my life. 
But if things had grown 
better to the south, it was still 
desolate and inclement near 
at hand. A spidery cross on 
every hill-top marked the 
neighborhood of a religious 
house; and a quarter of a 
mile beyond, the outlook 
southward opening out and 
growing bolder with every 
step, a white statue of the 
Virgin at the corner of a 
young plantation directed the 
traveler to our Lady of the 
Snows. Here, then, I struck 
leftward, and pursued my 
way, driving my secular don- 



i 



key before me, and creaking 
in my secular boots and gai- 
ters, toward the asylum of 
silence. 

I had not gone very far ere 
the wind brought to me the 
clanging of a bell, and some- 
how, I can scarce tell why, 
my heart sank within me at 
the sound. I have rarely ap- 
proached anything with more 
unaffected terror than the 
monastery of our Lady of the 
Snows. This it is to have had 
a Protestant education. And 
suddenly, on turning a corner, 
fear took hold on me from 
head to foot — slavish super- 
stitious fear; and though I 
did not stop in my advance, 
yet I went on slowly, like a 
man who should have passed 
a bourne unnoticed, and 
strayed into the country of 
the dead. For there upon the 
narrow new-made road, be- 



tween the stripling pines, was 
a medieval friar, fighting with 
a barrowful of turfs. Every 
Sunday of my childhood I 
used to study the Hermits of 
Marco Sadeler — enchanting 
prints, full of wood and field 
and medieval landscapes, as 
large as a county, for the 
imagination to go a-traveling 
in; and here, sure enough, 
was one of Marco Sadeler's 
heroes. He was robed in 
white like any specter, and the 
hood falling back, in the in- 
stancy of his contention with 
the barrow, disclosed a pate 
as bald and yellow as a skull. 
He might have been buried 
any time these thousand years, 
and all the lively parts of him 
resolved into earth and broken 
up with the farmer's harrow. 
I was troubled besides in 
my mind as to etiquette. Durst 
I address a person who was 



under a vow of silence? Clearly 
not. But drawing near, I 
doffed my cap to him with a 
far-away superstitious rever- 
ence. He nodded back, and 
cheerfully addressed me. Was 
I going to the monastery? 
Who was I ? An Englishman ? 
Ah, an Irishman, then? 

"No," I said, "a Scots- 
man." 

A Scotsn'ian? Ah, he had 
never seen a Scotsman before. 
And he looked me all over, 
his good, honest, brawny 
countenance shining with in- 
terest, as a boy might look 
upon a lion or an alligator. 
From him I learned with dis- 
gust that I could not be re- 
ceived at our Lady of the 
Snows; I might get a meal, 
perhaps, but that was all. 
And then, as our talk ran on, 
and it turned out that I was 
not a peddler, but a literary 



man, who drew landscapes and 
was going to write a book, he 
changed his manner of think- 
ing as to my reception (for I 
fear they respect persons even 
in a Trappist monastery), 
and told me I must be sure to 
ask for the Father Prior, and 
state my case to him in full. 
On second thoughts he deter- 
mined to go down with me 
himself ; he thought he could 
manage for me better. Might 
he say that I was a geogra- 
pher? 

No ; I thought, in the in- 
terests of truth, he positively 
might not. 

"Very well, then" (with 
disappointment) , "an author." 

It appeared he had been in 
a seminary with six young 
Irishmen, all priests long 
since, who had received news- 
papers and kept him informed 
of the state of ecclesiastical 



affairs in England. And he 
asked me eagerly after Dr. 
Pusey, for whose conversion 
the good man had continued 
ever since to pray night and 
morning. 

"I thought he was very 
near the truth/' he said; "and 
he will reach it yet ; there is 
so much virtue in prayer." 

He must be a stiff ungodly 
Protestant who can take any- 
thing but pleasure in this kind 
and hopeful story. While he 
was thus near the subject, the 
good father asked me if I 
were a Christian; and when 
he found I was not, or not 
after his way, he glossed it 
over with great good-will. 

The road which we were 
following, and which this 
stalwart father had made with 
his own two hands w^ithin the 
space of a year, came to a cor- 
ner, and showed us some white 
103 



buildings a little further on 
beyond the wood. At the same 
time, the bell once more 
sounded abroad. We were 
hard upon the monastery. 
Father Apollinaris (for that 
was my companion's name) 
stopped me. 

"I must not speak to you 
down there," he said. "Ask 
for the Brother Porter, and 
all will be well. But try to 
see me as you go out again 
through the wood, where I 
may speak to you. I am 
charmed to have made your 
acquaintance." 

And then suddenly raising 
his arms, flapping his fingers, 
and crying out twice, "I must 
not speak, I must not speak!" 
he ran away in front of me, 
and disappeared into the mon- 
astery-door. 

I own this somewhat ghastly 
eccentricity went a good way 



to revive my terrors. But 
where one was so good and 
simple, why should not all be 
alike? I took heart of grace, 
and went forward to the gate 
as fast as Modestine, who 
seemed to have a disaffection 
for monasteries, would permit. 
It was the first door, in my 
acquaintance of her^ which 
she had not shown an inde- 
cent haste, to enter. I sum- 
moned the place in form, 
though with a quaking heart. 
Father Michael, the Father 
Hospitaler, and a pair of 
brown-robed brothers came to 
the gate and spoke with me 
awhile. I think my sack was 
the great attraction; it had 
already beguiled the heart of 
poor Apollinaris, who had 
charged me on my life to 
show it to the Father Prior. 
But whether it was my ad- 
dress, or the sack, or the idea 



speedily published among that 
part of the brotherhood who 
attend on strangers that I was 
not a peddler after all, I 
found no difficulty as to my 
reception. Modestine was led 
away by a layman to the 
stables, and I and my pack 
were received into our Lady 
of the Snows. 



io6 



THE MONKS 

Father Michael, a pleas- 
ant, fresh-faced, smiling man, 
perhaps of thirty-five, took me 
to the pantry, and gave me a 
glass of liqueur to stay me un- 
til dinner. We had some talk, 
or rather I should say he lis- 
tened to my prattle indul- 
gently enough, but with an 
abstracted air, like a spirit 
with a thing of clay. And 
truly when I remember that I 
descanted principally on my 
appetite, and that it must have 
been by that time more than 
eighteen hours since Father 
Michael had so much as 
broken bread, I can well un- 
derstand that he would find 
an earthly savor in my con- 
versation. But his manner. 



though superior, was exqui- 
sitely gracious; and I find I 
have a lurking curiosity as to 
Father Michael's past. 

The whet administered, I 
was left alone for a little in 
the monastery garden. ' This 
is no more than the main 
court, laid out in sandy paths 
and beds of party-colored 
dahlias, and with a fountain 
and a black statue of the Vir- 
gin in the center. The build- 
ings stand around it four- 
square, bleak, as yet unsea- 
soned by the years and weath- 
er, and with no other features 
than a belfry and a pair of 
slated gables. Brothers in 
white, brothers in brown, 
passed silently along the 
sanded alleys; and when I 
first came out, three hooded 
monks were kneeling on the 
terrace at their prayers. A 
naked hill commands the mon- 

io8 



astery upon one side, and the 
wood commands it on the 
other. It lies exposed to 
wind; the snow falls off and 
on from October to May, and 
sometimes lies six weeks on 
end; but if they stood in 
Eden, with a climate like 
heaven's, the buildings them- 
selves would offer the same 
wintry and cheerless aspect ; 
and for my part, on this wild 
September day, before I was 
called to dinner, I felt chilly 
in and out. 

When I had eaten well and 
heartily, Brother Ambrose, a 
hearty conversable French- 
man (for all those who wait 
on strangers have the liberty 
to speak), led me to a little 
room in that part of the build- 
ing which is set apart for 
MM. les retraitants. It was 
clean and whitewashed, and 
furnished with strict necessa- 
T09 



ries, a crucifix, a bust of the 
late Pope, the "Imitation" 
in French, a book of religious 
meditations, and the "Life of 
Elizabeth Seton," evangelist, 
it would appear, of North 
America and of New Eng- 
land in particular. As far as 
my experience goes, there is a 
fair field for some more evan- 
gelization in these quarters ; 
but think of Cotton Mather! 
I should like to give him a 
reading of this little work in 
heaven, where I hope he 
dwells ; but perhaps he knows 
all that already, and much 
more; and perhaps he and 
Mrs. Seton are the dearest 
friends, and gladly unite their 
voices in the everlasting 
psalm. Over the table, to 
conclude the inventory of the 
room, hung a set of regula- 
tions for MM. les retraitants: 
what services they should at- 



tend, when they were to tell 
their beads or meditate, and 
when they were to rise and go 
to rest. At the foot was a 
notable N. B. : " Le temps 
lihre est employe a rexamen 
de conscience, a la confession, 
a faire de bonnes resolutions/' 
etc. To make good resolu- 
tions, indeed ! You might talk 
as fruitfully of making the 
hair grow on your head. 

I had scarce explored my 
niche when Brother Ambrose 
returned. An English board- 
er, it appeared, would like to 
speak with me. I professed 
my willingness, and the friar 
ushered in a fresh, young lit- 
tle Irishman of fifty, a deacon 
of the church, arrayed in strict 
canonicals, and wearing on his 
head what, in default of 
knowledge, I can only call the 
ecclesiastical shako. He had 
lived seven years in retreat at 



a convent of nuns in Belgium, 
and now five at our Lady of 
the Snows ; he never saw an 
English newspaper ; he spoke 
French imperfectly, and had 
he spoken it like a native, 
there was not much chance of 
conversation where he dwelt. 
With this, he was a man emi- 
nently sociable, greedy of 
news, and simple-minded like 
a child. If I was pleased to 
have a guide about the mon- 
astery, he was no less de- 
lighted to see an English face 
and hear an English tongue. 
He showed me his own 
room, where he passed his 
time among breviaries, He- 
brew bibles, and the Waverley 
novels. Thence he led me to 
the cloisters, into the chapter- 
house, through the vestry, 
where the brothers' gowns and 
broad straw hats were hang- 
ing up, each with his religious 



name upon a board, — names 
full of legendary suavity and 
interest, such as Basil, Hila- 
rion, Raphael, or Pacifique; 
into the library, where were 
all the works of Veuillot and 
Chateaubriand, and the Odes 
et Ballades, if you please, and 
even Moliere, to say nothing 
of innumerable fathers and a 
great variety of local and gen- 
eral historians. Thence my 
good Irishman took me round 
the workshops, where brothers 
bake bread, and make cart- 
wheels, and take photographs ; 
where one superintends a col- 
lection of curiosities, and an- 
other a gallery of rabbits. For 
in a Trappist monastery each 
monk has an occupation of his 
own choice, apart from his 
religious duties and the gen- 
eral labors of the house. Each 
must sing in the choir, if he 
has a voice and ear, and join 



in the haymaking if he has a 
hand to stir; but in his pri- 
vate hours, although he must 
be occupied, he may be occu- 
pied on what he likes. Thus 
I was told that one brother 
was engaged with literature; 
while Father ApoUinaris bus- 
ies himself in making roads, 
and the Abbot employs him- 
self in binding books. It is 
not so long since this Abbot 
was consecrated, by the way; 
and on that occasion, by a 
special grace, his mother was 
permitted to enter the chapel 
and witness the ceremony of 
consecration. A proud day 
for her to have a son a mitered 
abbot ; it makes you glad to 
think they let her in. 

In all these journey ings to 
and fro, many silent fathers 
and brethren fell in our way. 
Usually they paid no more re- 
gard to our passage than if we 



had been a cloud; but some- 
times the good deacon had a 
permission to ask of them, and 
it was granted by a peculiar 
movement of the hands, al- 
most like that of a dog's paws 
in swiinming, or refused by 
the usual negative signs, and 
in either case with lowered 
eyelids and a certain air of 
contrition, as of a man who 
was steering very close to evil. 
The monks, by special 
grace of their Abbot, were 
still taking two meals a day ; 
but it was already time for 
their grand fast, which begins 
somewhere in September and 
lasts till Easter, and during 
which they eat but once in the 
twenty-four hours, and that at 
two in the afternoon, twelve 
hours after they have begun 
the toil and vigil of the day. 
Their meals are scanty, but 
even of these they eat spar- 
es 



ingly; and though each is al- 
lowed a small carafe of wine, 
many refrain from this indul- 
gence. Without doubt, the 
most of mankind grossly over- 
eat themselves; our meals 
serve not only for support, but 
as a hearty and natural diver- 
sion from the labor of life. 
Although excess may be hurt- 
ful, I should have thought 
this Trappist regimen defec- 
tive. And I am astonished, as 
I look back, at the freshness 
of face and cheerfulness of 
manner of all whom I be- 
held. A happier nor a health- 
ier company I should scarce 
suppose that I have ever seen. 
As a matter of fact, on this 
bleak upland, and with the in- 
cessant occupation of the 
monks, life is of an uncertain 
tenure, and death no infre- 
quent visitor, at our Lady of 
the Snows. This, at least. 



was what was told me. But 
if they die easily, they must 
live healthily in the meantime, 
for they seemed all firm of 
flesh and high in color; and 
the only morbid sign that I 
could observe, an unusual 
brilliancy of eye, was one that 
served rather to increase the 
general impression of vivacity 
and strength. 

Those wiin whom I spoke 
were singularly sweet-tem- 
pered, with what I can only 
call a holy cheerfulness in air 
and conversation. There is a 
note, in the direction to visit- 
ors, telling them not to be 
offended at the curt speech of 
those who wait upon them, 
since it is proper to monks to 
speak little. The note might 
have been spared; to a man 
the hospitalers were all brim- 
ming with innocent talk, and, 
in my experience of the mon- 
117 



astery, it was easier to begin 
than to break off a conversa- 
tion. With the exception of 
Father Michael, who was a 
man of the world, they showed 
themselves full of kind and 
healthy interest in all sorts of 
subjects — in politics, in voy- 
ages, in my sleeping-sack — 
and not without a certain 
pleasure in the sound of their 
own voices. 

As for those who are re- 
stricted to silence, I can only 
wonder how they bear their 
solemn and cheerless isola- 
tion. And yet, apart from 
any view of mortification, I 
can see a certain policy, not 
only in the exclusion of wom- 
en, but in this vow of silence. 
I have had some experience of 
lay phalansteries, of an ar- 
tistic, not to say a bacchana- 
lian, character ; and seen more 
than one association easily 

ii8 



formed, and yet more easily 
dispersed. With a Cistercian 
rule, perhaps they might have 
lasted longer. In the neigh- 
borhood of women it is but a 
touch-and-go association that 
can be formed among defense- 
less men; the stronger elec- 
tricity is sure to triumph ; the 
dreams of boyhood, the 
schemes of youth, are aban- 
doned after an interview of 
ten minutes, and the arts and 
sciences, and professional male 
jollity, deserted at once for 
two sweet eyes and a caressing 
accent. And next after this, 
the tongue is the great divider. 
I am almost ashamed to 
pursue this worldly criticism 
of a religious rule ; but there 
is yet another point in which 
the Trappist order appeals to 
me as a model of wisdom. By 
two in the morning the clap- 
per goes upon the bell, and so 



on, hour by hour, and some- 
times quarter by quarter, till 
eight, the hour of rest; so in- 
finitesimally is the day divided 
among different occupations. 
The man who keeps rabbits, 
for example, hurries from his 
hutches to the chapel, the 
chapter-room, or the refec- 
tory, all day long : every hour 
he has an office to sing, a duty 
to perform; from two, when 
he rises in the dark, till eight, 
when he returns to receive the 
comfortable gift of sleep, he 
is upon his feet and occupied 
with manifold and changing 
business. I know many per- 
sons, worth several thousands 
in the year, who are not so 
fortunate in the disposal of 
their lives. Into how many 
houses would not the note of 
the monastery-bell, dividing 
the day into manageable por- 
tions, bring peace of mind and 



healthful activity of body? 
We speak of hardships, but 
the true hardship is to be a 
dull fool, and permitted to 
mismanage life in our own 
dull and foolish manner. 

From this point of view, we 
may perhaps better understand 
the monk's existence. A long 
novitiate, and every proof of 
constancy of mind and 
strength of body is required 
before admission to the order ; 
but I could not find that many 
were discouraged. In the 
photographer's studio, which 
figures so strangely among the 
outbuildings, my eye was at- 
tracted by the portrait of a 
young fellow in the uniform 
of a private of foot. This 
was one of the novices, who 
came of the age for service, 
and marched and drilled and 
mounted guard for the proper 
time among the garrison of 



Algiers. Here was a man 
who had surely seen both sides 
of life before deciding; yet 
as soon as he was set free 
from service he returned to 
finish his novitiate. 

This austere rule entitles a 
man to heaven as by right. 
When the Trappist sickens, he 
quits not his habit; he lies in 
the bed of death as he has 
prayed and labored in his fru- 
gal and silent existence; and 
when the Liberator comes, at 
the very moment, even before 
they have carried him in his 
robe to lie his little last in the 
chapel among continual chant- 
ings, joy-bells break forth, as 
if for a marriage, from the 
slated belfry, and proclaim 
throughout the neighborhood 
that another soul has gone to 
God. 

At night, under the conduct 
of my kind Irishman, I took 



my place in the gallery to 
hear compline and Salve Re- 
gina, with which the Cister- 
cians bring every day to a con- 
clusion. There were none of 
those circumstances which 
strike the Protestant as child- 
ish or as tawdry in the public 
offices of Rome. A stern sim- 
plicity, heightened by the ro- 
mance of the surroundings, 
spoke directly to the heart. I 
recall the whitewashed chapel, 
the hooded figures in the 
choir, the lights alternately oc- 
cluded and revealed, the strong 
manly singing, the silence that 
ensued, the sight of cowled 
heads bowed in prayer, and 
then the clear trenchant beat- 
ing of the bell, breaking in to 
show that the last office was 
over and the hour of sleep had 
come; and when I remember, 
I am not surprised that I made 
my escape into the court with 



somewhat whirling fancies, 
and stood like a man bewil- 
dered in the windy, starry 
night. 

But I was weary ; and 
when I had quieted my spirits 
with Elizabeth Seton's mem- 
oirs — a dull work — the cold 
and the raving of the wind 
among the pines — for my 
room was on that side of the 
monastery which adjoins the 
woods — disposed me readily 
to slumber. I was wakened 
at black midnight, as it 
seemed, though it was really 
two in the morning, by the 
first stroke upon the bell. All 
the brothers were then hurry- 
ing to the chapel ; the dead in 
life, at this untimely hour, 
were already beginning the 
uncomforted labors of their 
day. The dead in life — there 
was a chill reflection. And 
the words of a French song 



came back into my memory, 
telling of the best of our 
mixed existence : 

** Que t'as de belles filles, 

Girofl^! 

Girofla! 

Que t'as de belles filles, 

U Amour les conipteral " 

And I blessed God that I was 
free to wander, free to hope, 
and free to love. 



THE BOARDERS 

But there was another side 
to my residence at our Lady 
of the Snows. At this late 
season there were not many 
boarders; and yet I was not 
alone in the public part of 
the monastery. This itself is 
hard by the gate, with a small 
dining-room on the ground 
floor, and a whole corridor of 
cells similar to mine up-stairs. 
I have stupidly forgotten the 
board for a regular r e trait ant ; 
but it was somewhere between 
three and five francs a day, 
and I think most probably the 
first. Chance visitors like 
myself might give what they 
chose as a free-will offering, 
but nothing was demanded. I 
may mention that when I was 
12S 



going away, Father Michael re- 
fused twenty francs as exces- 
sive. I explained the reason- 
ing which led me to offer him 
so much; but even then, from 
a curious point of honor, he 
would not accept it with his 
own hand. "I have no right 
to refuse for the monastery," 
he explained, "but I should 
prefer if you would give it to 
one of the brothers." 

I had dined alone, because 
I arrived late ; but at supper I 
found two other guests. One 
was a country parish priest, 
who had walked over that 
morning from the seat of his 
cure near Mende to enjoy four 
days of solitude and prayer. 
He Was a grenadier in per- 
son, with the hale color and 
circular wrinkles of a peasant ; 
and as he complained much 
of how he had been impeded 
by his skirts upon the march, 
127 



I have a vivid fancy portrait 
of him,, striding along, up- 
right, big-boned, with kilted 
cassock, through the bleak 
hills of Gevaudan. The other 
was a short, grizzling, thick- 
set man, from forty-five to 
fifty, dressed in tweed with a 
knitted spencer, and the red 
ribbon of a decoration in his 
buttonhole. This last was a 
hard person to classify. He 
was an old soldier, who had 
seen service and risen to the 
rank of commandant ; and he 
retained some of the brisk de- 
cisive manners of the camp. 
On the other hand, as soon as 
his resignation was accepted, 
he had come to our Lady of 
the Snows as a boarder, and 
after a brief experience of its 
ways, had decided to remain 
as a novice. Already the new 
life was beginning to modify 
his appearance ; already he 



had acquired somewhat of the 
quiet and smiling air of the 
brethren; and he was as yet 
neither an officer nor a Trap- 
pist, but partook of the char- 
acter of each. And certainly 
here was a man in an interest- 
ing nick of life. Out of the 
noise of cannon and trumpets, 
he was in the act of passing 
into this still country border- 
ing on the grave, where men 
sleep nightly in their grave- 
clothes, and, like phantoms, 
communicate by signs. 

At supper we talked poli- 
tics. I make it my business, 
when I am in France, to 
preach political good-will and 
moderation, and to dwell on 
the example of Poland, much 
as some alarmists in England 
dwell on the example of Car- 
thage. The priest and the 
Commandant assured me of 
their sympathy with all I said, 



and made a heavy sighing over 
the bitterness of contemporary 
feeling. 

"Why, you cannot say any- 
thing to a man with which he 
does not absolutely agree," 
said I, "but he flies up at you 
in a temper." 

They both declared that 
such a state of things was anti- 
christian. 

While we were thus agree- 
ing, what should my tongue 
stumble upon but a word in 
praise of Gambetta's modera- 
tion. The old soldier's coun- 
tenance was instantly suffused 
with blood ; with the palms 
of his hands he beat the table 
like a naughty child. 

''Comment, monsieur?" he 
shouted. ''Comment? Gam- 
betta moderate? Will you 
dare to justify these words?" 

But the priest had not for- 
gotten the tenor of our talk. 



And suddenly, in the height 
of his fury, the old soldier 
found a warning look directed 
on his face; the absurdity of 
his behavior was brought home 
to him in a flash ; and the 
storm came to an abrupt end, 
without another word. 

It was only in the morning, 
over our coffee (Friday, Sep- 
tember 27^h), that this couple 
found out I was a heretic. I 
suppose I had misled them by 
some admiring expressions as 
to the monastic life around 
us ; and it was only by a point- 
blank question that the truth 
came out. I had been toler- 
antly used, both by simple 
Father Apollinaris and astute 
Father Michael ; and the good 
Irish deacon, when he heard 
of my religious weakness, had 
only patted me upon the shoul- 
der and said, "You must be a 
Catholic and come to heaven." 



But I was now among a dif- 
ferent sect of orthodox. These 
two men were bitter and up- 
right and narrow, like the 
worst of Scotsmen, and in- 
deed, upon my heart, I fancy 
they were worse. The priest 
snorted aloud like a battle- 
horse. 

" Et vous pretendez mourir 
dans cette espece de croy- 
ance?" he demanded; and 
there is no type used by mor- 
tal printers large enough to 
qualify his accent. 

I humbly indicated that I 
had no design of changing. 

But he could not away with 
such a monstrous attitude. 
"No, no," he cried; "you must 
change. You have come here, 
God has led you here, and you 
must embrace the opportu- 
nity." 

I made a slip in policy ; I 
appealed to the family affec- 



tions, though I was speaking 
to a priest and a soldier, two 
classes of men circumstan- 
tially divorced from the kind 
and homely ties of life. 

"Your father and mother?" 
cried the priest. "Very well; 
you will convert them in their 
turn when you go home." 

I think I see my father's 
face! I would rather tackle 
the Gaetulian lion in his den 
than embark on such an en- 
terprise against the family 
theologian. 

But now the hunt was up ; 
priest and soldier were in full 
cry for my conversion; and 
the Work of the Propagation 
of the Faith, for which the 
people of Cheylard subscribed 
forty-eight francs ten centimes 
during 1877, was being gal- 
lantly pursued against myself. 
It was an odd but most effec- 
tive proselytizing. They never 



sought to convince me in argu- 
ment, where I might have at- 
tempted some defense; but 
took it for granted that I was 
both ashamed and terrified at 
my position, and urged me 
solely on the point of time. 
Now, they said, when God 
had led me to our Lady of 
the Snows, now was the ap- 
pointed hour. 

"Do not be withheld by 
false shame," observed the 
priest, for my encouragement. 

For one who feels very sim- 
ilarly to all sects of religion, 
and who has never been able, 
even for a moment, to weigh 
seriously the merit of this or 
that creed on the eternal side 
of things, however much he 
may see to praise or blame up- 
on the secular and temporal 
side, the situation thus created 
was both unfair and painful. 
I committed my second fault 



in tact, and tried to plead that 
it was all the same thing in 
the end, and we were all 
drawing near by different sides 
to the same kind and un- 
discriminating Friend and 
Father. That, as it seems to 
lay-spirits, would be the only 
gospel worthy of the name. 
But different men think dif- 
ferently; and this revolution- 
ary aspiration brought down 
the priest with all the terrors 
of the law. He launched into 
harrowing details of hell. The 
damned, he said — on the au- 
thority of a little book which 
he had read not a week be- 
fore, and which, to add con- 
viction to conviction, he had 
fully intended to bring along 
with him in his pocket — were 
to occupy the same attitude 
through all eternity in the 
midst of dismal tortures. And 
as he thus expatiated, he grew 



in nobility of aspect with his 
enthusiasm. 

As a result the pair con- 
cluded that I should seek out 
the Prior, since the Abbot 
was from home, and lay my 
case immediately before him. 

" C est mon conseil comme 
ancien militaire," observed the 
Commandant; " et celui de 
monsieur comme pretre." 

"Old/' added the cure, sen- 
tentiously nodding; "comme 
ancien militaire — et comme 
pretre." 

At this moment, whilst I 
was somewhat embarrassed 
how to answer, in came one 
of the monks, a little brown 
fellow, as lively as a grig, and 
with an Italian accent, who 
threw himself at once into the 
contention, but in a milder 
and more persuasive vein, as 
befitted one of these pleasant 
brethren. Look at him, he 
136 



said. The rule was very 
hard ; he would have dearly 
liked to stay in his own coun- 
try, Italy — it was well known 
how beautiful it was, the 
beautiful Italy ; but then there 
were no Trappists in Italy; 
and he had a soul to save; 
and here he was. 

I am afraid I must be at 
bottom, what a cheerful In- 
dian critic has dubbed me, "a 
f addling hedonist" ; for this 
description of the brother's 
motives gave me somewhat of 
a shock. I should have pre- 
ferred to think he had chosen 
the life for its own sake, and 
not for ulterior purposes ; and 
this shows how profoundly I 
was out of sympathy with 
these good Trappists, even 
when I was doing my best to 
sympathize. But to the cure 
the argument seemed decisive. 

"Hear that!" he cried. 
137 



"And I have seen a marquis 
here, a marquis, a marquis" — 
he repeated the holy word 
three times over — "and other 
persons high in society; and 
generals. And here, at your 
side, is this gentleman, who 
has been so many years in 
armies — decorated, an old 
warrior. And here he is, 
ready to dedicate himself to 
God." 

I was by this time so thor- 
oughly embarrassed that I 
pleaded cold feet, and made 
my escape from the apart- 
ment. It was a furious windy 
morning, with a sky much 
cleared, and long and potent 
intervals of sunshine ; and I 
wandered until dinner in the 
wild country toward the east, 
sorely staggered and beaten 
upon by the gale, but re- 
warded with some striking 
views. 

138 



At dinner the Work of the 
Propagation of the Faith was 
recommenced, and on this oc- 
casion still more distastefully 
to me. The priest asked me 
many questions as to the con- 
temptible faith of my fathers, 
and received my replies with 
a kind of ecclesiastical titter. 

"Your sect," he said once; 
"for I think you will admit it 
would be doing it too much 
honor to call it a religion." 

"As you please, monsieur," 
said I. "La parole est a 
vous." 

At length I grew annoyed 
beyond endurance ; and al- 
though he was on his own 
ground, and, what is more to 
the purpose, an old man, and 
so holding a claim upon my 
toleration, I could not avoid 
a protest against this uncivil 
usage. He was sadly discoun- 
tenanced. 



"I assure you," he said, "I 
have no inclination to laugh 
in my heart. I have no other 
feeling but interest in your 
soul." 

And there ended my con- 
version. Honest man ! He 
was no dangerous deceiver; 
but a country parson, full of 
zeal and faith. Long may he 
tread Gevaudan with his 
kilted skirts — a man strong to 
walk and strong to comfort 
his parishioners in death ! I 
dare say he would beat bravely 
through a snow-storm where 
his duty called him; and it 
is not always the most faith- 
ful believer who makes the 
cunningest apostle. 



140 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 

(^continued) 



' The bed 7vas made, the room -was /it. 
By punctual eve the stars ivere lit; 
The air was szv^et, the -water rati; 
N^o 7ieed luas there for maid or man 
When 'we put up, my ass and I, 
At God' s green caravanserai. " . 

Old Play. 



ACROSS THE GOULET 

The wind fell during dinner, 
and the sky remained clear ; 
so it was under better auspices 
that I loaded Modestine be- 
fore the monastery-gate. My 
Irish friend accompanied me 
so far on the way. As we 
came through the wood, there 
was Pere Apollinaire hauling 
his barrow; and he too quit- 



ted his labors to go with me 
for perhaps a hundred yards, 
holding my hand between 
both of his in front of him. 
I parted first from one and 
then from the other with un- 
feigned regret, but yet with 
the glee of the traveler who 
shakes off the dust of one 
stage before hurrying forth 
upon another. Then Modes- 
tine and I mounted the course 
of the Allier, which here led 
us back into Gevaudan toward 
its sources in the forest of 
Mercoire. It was but an in- 
considerable burn before we 
left its guidance. Thence, 
over a hill, our way lay 
through a naked plateau, un- 
til we reached Chasserades at 
sundown. 

The company in the mn- 

kitchen that night were all 

men employed in survey for 

one of the projected railways. 

142 



They w-ere intelligent and 
conversable, and we decided 
the future of France over hot 
wine, until the state of the 
clock frightened us to rest. 
There were four beds in the 
little up-stairs room ; and we 
slept six. But I had a bed 
to myself, and persuaded 
them to le^ive the window 
open. 

"He, bourgeois ; il est cinq 
heures!" was the cry that 
wakened me in the morning 
(Saturday, September 28th). 
The room was full of a trans- 
parent darkness, which dimly 
showed me the other three 
beds and the five different 
nightcaps on the pillows. But 
out of the window the dawn 
was growing ruddy in a long 
belt over the hill-tops, and 
day was about to flood the 
plateau. The hour was in- 
spiriting; and there seemed a 

143 



promise of calm weather, 
which was perfectly fulfilled. 
I was soon under way with 
Modestine. The road lay for 
a while over the plateau, and 
then descended through a pre- 
cipitous village into the valley 
of the Chassezac. This stream 
ran among green meadows, 
well hidden from the world 
by its steep banks ; the broom 
was in flower, and here and 
there was a hamlet sending 
up its smoke. 

At last the path crossed the 
Chassezac upon a bridge, and, 
forsaking this deep hollow, set 
itself to cross the mountain of 
La Goulet. It wound up 
through Lestampes by upland 
fields and woods of beech and 
birch, and with every corner 
brought me into an acquaint- 
ance with some new interest. 
Even in the gully of the Chas- 
sezac my ear had been struck 



by a noise like that of a great 
bass bell ringing at the dis- 
tance of many miles ; but this, 
as I continued to mount and 
draw nearer to it, seemed to 
change in character, and I 
found at length that it came 
from some one leading flocks 
afield to the note of a rural 
horn. The narrow street of 
Lestampes stood full of sheep, 
from wall to wall — black 
sheep and white, bleating like 
the birds in spring, and each 
one accompanying himself 
upon the sheep-bell round his 
neck. It made a pathetic con- 
cert, all in treble. A little 
higher, and I passed a pair of 
men in a tree with pruning- 
hooks, and one of them was 
singing the music of a bour- 
ree. Still further, and when 
I was already threading the 
birches, the crowing of cocks 
came cheerfully up to my ears, 



and along with that the voice 
of a flute discoursing a delib- 
erate and plaintive air from 
one of the upland villages. I 
pictured to myself some griz- 
zled, apple-cheeked, country 
schoolmaster fluting in his bit 
of a garden in the clear au- 
tumn sunshine. All these 
beautiful and interesting 
sounds filled my heart with an 
unwonted expectation; and it 
appeared to me that, once past 
this range which I was mount- 
ing, I should descend into the 
garden of the world. Nor 
was I deceived, for I was now 
done with rains and winds 
and a bleak country. The 
first part of my journey ended 
here ; and this was like an in- 
duction of sweet sounds into 
the other and more beautiful. 
There are other degrees of 
feyness, as of punishment, be- 
sides the capital ; and I was 
146 



now led by my good spirits into 
an adventure which I relate in 
the interest of future donkey- 
drivers. The road zigzagged 
so widely on the hillside that 
I chose a short cut by map and 
compass, and struck through 
the dwarf woods to catch the 
road again upon a higher 
level. It wds my one serious 
conflict with Modestine. She 
would none of my short cut ; 
she turned in my face, she 
backed, she reared, she, whom 
I had hitherto imagined to be 
dumb, actually brayed with a 
loud hoarse flourish, like a 
cock crowing for the dawn. 
I plied the goad with one 
hand ; with the other, so steep 
was the ascent, I had to hold 
on the pack-saddle. Half a 
dozen times she was nearly 
over backward on the top of 
me ; half a dozen times, from 
sheer weariness of spirit, I 
147 



was nearly giving it up, and 
leading her down again to 
follow the road. But I took 
the thing as a wager, and 
fought it through. I was sur- 
prised, as I went on my way 
again, by what appeared to 
be chill rain-drops falling on 
my hand, and more than once 
looked up in wonder at the 
cloudless sky. But it was only 
sweat which came dropping 
from my brow. 

Over the summit of the 
Goulet there was no marked 
road — only upright stones 
posted from space to space to 
guide the drovers. The turf 
underfoot was springy and 
well scented. I had no com- 
pany but a lark or two, and 
met but one bullock-cart be- 
tween Lestampes and Bley- 
mard. In front of me I saw 
a shallow valley, and beyond 
that the range of the Lozere, 



sparsely wooded and well 
enough modeled in the flanks, 
but straight and dull in out- 
line. There was scarce a sign 
of culture ; only about Bley- 
mard, the white highroad 
from Villefort to Mende trav- 
ersed a range of meadows, set 
with spiry poplars, and sound- 
ing from side to side with the 
bells of flocks and herds. 



A NIGHT AMONG THE 
PINES 

From Bleymard after dinner, 
although it was already late, 
I set out to scale a portion of 
the Lozere. An ill-marked 
stony drove-road guided me 
forward ; and I met nearly 
half a dozen bullock-carts de- 
scending from the woods, each 
laden with a whole pine-tree 
for the winter's firing. At the 
top of the woods, which do 
not climb very high upon this 
cold ridge, I struck leftward 
by a path among the pines, 
until I hit on a dell of green 
turf, where a streamlet made a 
little spout over some stones 
to serve me for a water-tap. 
"In a more sacred or sequest- 



ered bower — nor nymph nor 
f annus haunted." The trees 
were not old^ but they grew 
thickly round the glade : there 
was no outlook, except north- 
eastward upon distant hill- 
tops, or straight upward to the 
sky ; and the encampment felt 
secure and private like a room. 
By the time I had made my 
arrangements and fed Modes- 
tine, the day w^as already be- 
ginning to decline. I buckled 
myself to the knees into my 
sack and made a hearty meal ; 
and as soon as the sun went 
down, I pulled my cap over 
my eyes and fell asleep. 

Night is a dead monotonous 
period under a roof; but in 
the open world it passes light- 
ly, with its stars and dews and 
perfumes, and the hours are 
marked by changes in the face 
of Nature. What seems a 
kind of temporal death to peo- 



pie choked between walls and 
curtains, is only a light and 
living slumber to the man who 
sleeps afield. All night long 
he can hear Nature breathing 
deeply and freely ; even as she 
takes her rest she turns and 
smiles; and there is one stir- 
ring hour unknown to those 
who dwell in houses, when a 
wakeful influence goes abroad 
over the sleeping hemisphere, 
and all the outdoor world are 
on their feet. It is then that 
the cock first crows, not this 
time to announce the dawn, 
but like a cheerful watchman 
speeding the course of night. 
Cattle awake on the mead- 
ows ; sheep break their fast on 
dewy hillsides, and change to 
a new lair among the ferns; 
and houseless men, who have 
lain down with the fowls, 
open their dim eyes and be- 
hold the beauty of the night. 



At what inaudible sum- 
mons, at what gentle touch of 
Nature, are all these sleepers 
thus recalled in the same hour 
to life? Do the stars rain 
down an influence, or do we 
share some thrill of mother 
earth below our resting bod- 
ies? Even shepherds and old 
countryfolk, who are the 
deepest read in these arcana, 
have not a guess as to the 
means or purpose of this 
nightly resurrection. Toward 
two in the morning they de- 
clare the thing takes place ; 
and neither know nor inquire 
further. And at least it is a 
pleasant incident. We are dis- 
turbed in our slumber only, 
like the luxurious Montaigne, 
"that we may the better and 
more sensibly relish it." We 
have a moment to look upon 
the stars, and there is a spe- 
cial pleasure for some minds 



in the reflection that we share 
the impulse with all outdoor 
creatures in our neighbor- 
hood, that we have escaped 
out of the Bastille of civiliza- 
tion, and are become, for the 
time being, a mere kindly ani- 
mal and a sheep of Nature's 
flock. 

When that hour came to me 
among the pines, I wakened 
thirsty. My tin was standing 
by me half full of water. I 
emptied it at a draught; and 
feeling broad awake after this 
internal cold aspersion, sat 
upright to make a cigarette. 
The stars were clear, colored, 
and jewel-like, but not frosty. 
A faint silvery vapor stood 
for the Milky Way. All 
around me the black fir-points 
stood upright and stock-still. 
By the whiteness of the pack- 
saddle, I could see Modestine 
walking round and round at 



the length of her tether ; 1 
could hear her steadily munch- 
ing at the sward ; but there 
was not another sound, save 
the indescribable quiet talk of 
the runnel over the stones. I 
lay lazily smoking and study- 
ing the color of the sky, as 
we call the void of space, 
from where it showed a red- 
dish gray behind the pines to 
where it showed a glossy blue- 
black between the stars. As 
if to be more like a peddler, 
I wear a silver ring. This I 
could see faintly shining as 
I raised or lowered the cigar- 
ette ; and at each whiff the 
inside of my hand was illumi- 
nated, and became for a sec- 
ond the highest light in the 
landscape. 

A faint wind, more like a 
moving coolness than a stream 
of air, passed down the glade 
from time to time ; so that 



even in my great chamber the 
air was being renewed all 
night long. I thought with 
horror of the inn at Chasser- 
ades and the congregated 
nightcaps; with horror of the 
nocturnal prowesses of clerks 
and students, of hot theaters 
and pass-keys and close rooms. 
I have not often enjoyed a 
more serene possession of my- 
self, nor felt more independ- 
ent of material aids. The outer 
world, from which we cower 
into our houses, seemed after 
all a gentle habitable place; 
and night after night a man's 
bed, it seemed, was laid and 
waiting for him in the fields, 
where God keeps an open 
house. I thought I had re- 
discovered one of those truths 
which are revealed to savages 
and hid from political econo- 
mists : at the least, I had dis- 
covered a new pleasure for 



myself. And yet even while 
I was exulting in my solitude 
I became aware of a strange 
lack. I wished a companion 
to lie near me in the starlight, 
silent and not moving, but 
ever within touch. For there 
is a fellowship more quiet 
even than solitude, and which, 
rightly understood, is solitude 
made perfect. And to live 
out of doors with the woman 
a man loves is of all lives 
the most complete and free. 

As I thus lay, between con- 
tent and longing, a faint noise 
stole toward me through the 
pines. I thought, at first, it 
was the crowing of cocks or 
the barking of dogs at some 
very distant farm ; but stead- 
ily and gradually it took ar- 
ticulate shape in my ears, un- 
til I became aware that a pas- 
senger was going by upon the 
highroad in the valley, and 



singing loudly as he went. 
There was more of good-will 
than grace in his perform- 
ance ; but he trolled with am- 
ple lungs; and the sound of 
his voice took hold upon the 
hillside and set the air shak- 
ing in the leafy glens. I have 
heard people passing by night 
in sleeping cities ; some of 
them sang; one, I remember, 
played loudly on the bag- 
pipes. I have heard the rat- 
tle of a cart or carriage spring 
up suddenly after hours of 
stillness, and pass, for some 
minutes, within the range of 
my hearing as I lay abed. 
There is a romance about all 
who are abroad in the black 
hours, and with something of 
a thrill we try to guess their 
business. But here the ro- 
mance was double : first, this 
glad passenger, lit internally 
with wine, who sent up his 
158 



voice in music through the 
night; and then I, on the 
other hand, buckled into my 
sack, and smoking alone in 
the pine-woods between four 
and five thousand feet toward 
the stars. 

When I awoke again (Sun- 
day, 29th September), many 
of the stars had disappeared; 
only the stronger companions 
of the night still burned vis- 
ibly overhead ; and away to- 
ward the east I saw a faint 
haze of light upon the hori- 
zon, such as had been the 
Milky Way when I was last 
awake. Day was at hand. I 
lit my lantern, and by its 
glow-worm light put on my 
boots and gaiters ; then I 
broke up some bread for Mo- 
destine, filled my can at the 
water-tap, and lit my spirit- 
lamp to boil myself some 
chocolate. The blue darkness 
159 



lay long in the glade where I 
had so sweetly slumbered ; 
but soon there was a broad 
streak of orange melting into 
gold along the mountain-tops 
of Vivarais. A solemn glee 
possessed my mind at this 
gradual and lovely coming in 
of day. I heard the runnel 
with delight ; I looked round 
me for something beautiful 
and unexpected ; but the still 
black pine-trees, the hollow 
glade, the munching ass, re- 
mained unchanged in figure. 
Nothing had altered but the 
light, and that, indeed, shed 
over all a spirit of life and of 
breathing peace, and moved 
me to a strange exhilaration. 
I drank my water chocolate, 
which was hot if it was not 
rich, and strolled here and 
there, and up and down about 
the glade. While I was thus 
delaying, a gush of steady 

i6o 



wind, as long as a heavy sigh, 
poured direct out of the quar- 
ter of the morning. It was 
cold, and set me sneezing. 
The trees near at hand tossed 
their black plumes in its pas- 
sage ; and I could see the thin 
distant spires of pine along 
the edge of the hill rock 
slightly to and fro against the 
golden east. Ten minutes 
after, the sunlight spread at 
a gallop along the hillside, 
scattering shadows and spar- 
kles, and the day had come 
completely. 

I hastened to prepare my 
pack, and tackle the steep as- 
cent that lay before me ; but 
I had something on my mind. 
It was only a fancy; yet a 
fancy will sometimes be im- 
portunate. I had been most 
hospitably received and punc- 
tually served in my green cara- 
vanserai. The room was airy, 

11 i6i 



the water excellent, and. the 
dawn had called me to a mo- 
ment. I say nothing of the 
tapestries or the inimitable 
ceiling, nor yet of the view 
which I commanded from the 
windows; but I felt I was in 
some one's debt for all this 
liberal entertainment. And 
so it pleased me, in a half- 
laughing way, to leave pieces 
of money on the turf as I 
went along, until I had left 
enough for my night's lodg- 
ing. I trust they did not fall 
to some rich and churlish 
drover. 



162 



THE COUNTRY OF 
THE CAMISARDS 



* IVe travelled in the print of olden zvars: 

Yet all the land tvas green; 

And love v: found, and peace, 

Where fire and war had been. 

They pass and smile, the children of the 

sword — 

No -more the sword they wield; 
A nd O, how deep the corn 
A long the battle-field! " 

W. P. Bannatyne. 



ACROSS THE LOZERE 

The track that I had fol- 
lowed in the evening soon 
died out, and I continued to 
follow over a bald turf ascent 
a row of stone pillars, such as 
had conducted me across the 
Goulet. It was already warm. 
I tied my jacket on the pack. 



and walked in my knitted 
waistcoat. Modestine herself 
was in high spirits, and broke 
of her own accord, for the 
first time in my experience, 
into a jolting trot that sent 
the oats swashing in the pocket 
of my coat. The view, back 
upon the northern Gevaudan, 
extended with every step ; 
scarce a tree, scarce a house, 
appeared upon the fields of 
wild hill that ran north, east, 
and west, all blue and gold 
in the haze and sunlight of 
the morning. A multitude of 
little birds kept sweeping and 
twittering about my path; 
they perched on the stone pil- 
lars, they pecked and strutted 
on the turf, and I saw them 
circle in volleys in the blue 
air, and show, from time to 
time, translucent flickering 
wings between the sun and 
me. 

164 



Almost from the first mo- 
ment of my march, a faint 
large noise, like a distant surf, 
had filled my ears. Some- 
times I was tempted to think 
it the voice of a neighboring 
waterfall, and somxCtimes a 
subjective result of the utter 
stillness of the hill. But as 
I continued to advance, the 
noise increased and became 
like the hissing of an enor- 
mous tea-urn, and at the same 
time breaths of cool air began 
to reach me from the direc- 
tion of the summit. At length 
I understood. It was blowing 
stiffly from the south upon 
the other slope of the Lozere, 
and every step that I took I 
was drawing nearer to the 
wind. 

Although it had been long 
desired, it was quite unex- 
pectedly at last that my eyes 
rose above the summit. A 
165 



step that seemed no way more 
decisive than many other steps 
that had preceded it — and, 
"like stout Cortez when, with 
eagle eyes, he stared on the 
Pacific," I took possession, in 
my own name, of a new quar- 
ter of the world. For behold, 
instead of the gross turf ram- 
part I had been mounting for 
so long, a view into the hazy 
air of heaven, and a land of 
intricate blue hills below my 
feet. 

The Lozere lies nearly east 
and west, cutting Gevaudan 
into two unequal parts; its 
highest point, this Pic de 
Finiels, on which I was then 
standing, rises upward of five 
thousand six hundred feet 
above the sea, and in clear 
weather commands a view 
over all lower Languedoc to 
the Mediterranean Sea. I 
have spoken with people who 
166 



either pretended or believed 
that they had seen, from the 
Pic de Finiels, white ships 
sailing by Montpellier and 
Cette. Behind was the up- 
land northern country through 
which my way had lain, peo- 
pled by a dull race, without 
wood, without much grandeur 
of hill-forni, and famous in 
the past for little besides 
wolves. But in front of me, 
half veiled in sunny haze, lay 
a new Gevaudan, rich, pic- 
turesque, illustrious for stir- 
ring events. Speaking largely, 
I w^as in the Cevennes at Mo- 
nastier, and during all my 
journey; but there is a strict 
and local sense in which only 
this confused and shaggy 
country at my feet has any 
title to the name, and in this 
sense the peasantry employ the 
word. These are the Ceven- 
nes with an emphasis : the 



Cevennes of the Cevennes. ]0 
that undecipherable labyrinth 
of hills, a war of bandits, a 
war of wild beasts, raged for 
two years between the Grand 
Monarch with all his troops 
and marshals on the one hand, 
and a few thousand Protest- 
ant mountaineers upon the 
other. A hundred and eighty 
years ago, the Camisards held 
a station even on the Lozere, 
where I stood ; they had an 
organization, arsenals, a mili- 
tary and religious hierachy; 
their affairs were "the dis- 
course of every coffee-house" 
in London ; England sent 
fleets in their support; their 
leaders prophesied and mur- 
dered ; with colors and dnuns, 
and the singing of old French 
psalms, their bands sometimes 
affronted daylight, marched 
before walled cities, and dis- 
persed the generals of the 



king ; and sometimes at night, 
or in masquerade, possessed 
themselves of strong castles, 
and avenged treachery upon- 
their allies and cruelty upon 
their foes. There, a hun- 
dred and eighty years ago, 
«* was the chivalrous Roland, 
"Count and Lord Roland, 
generalissimo of the Protest- 
ants in France," grave, silent, 
imperious, pock-marked ex- 
dragoon, whom a lady fol- 
lowed in his wanderings out 
of love. There was Cavalier, 
a baker's apprentice with a 
genius for war, elected brig- 
adier of Camisards at seven- 
teen, to die at fifty-five the 
English governor of Jersey. 
There again was Castanet, a 
partizan leader in a volumi- 
nous peruke and with a taste 
for controversial divinity. 
Strange generals, who moved 
apart to take counsel with the 

i6g 



God of Hosts, and fled or of- 
fered battle, set sentinels or 
slept in an unguarded camp, 
as the Spirit whispered to 
their hearts ! And there, to 
follow these and other leaders, 
was the rank and file of 
prophets and disciples, bold, 
patient, indefatigable, hardy 
to run upon the mountains, 
cheering their rough life with 
psalms, eager to fight, eager 
to pray, listening devoutly to 
the oracles of brain-sick chil- 
dren, and mystically putting 
a grain of wheat among the 
pewter balls with which they 
charged their muskets. 

I had traveled hitherto 
through a dull district, and in 
the track of nothing more 
notable than the child-eating 
Beast of Gevaudan, the Na- 
poleon Buonaparte of wolves. 
But now I was to go down 
into thie scene of a romantic 
170 



chapter — or, better, a roman- 
tic foot-note — in the history 
of the world. What was left 
of all this bygone dust and 
heroism? I was told that 
Protestantism still survived in 
this head seat of Protestant 
resistance ; so much the priest 
himself had told me in the 
monastery parlor. But I had 
yet to learn if it were a bare 
survival, or a lively and gener- 
ous tradition. Again, if in 
the northern Cevennes the 
people are narrow in religious 
judgments, and more filled 
with zeal than charity, what 
was I to look for in this land 
of persecution and reprisal — 
in a land where the tyranny 
of the Church produced the 
Camisard rebellion, and the 
terror of the Camisards threw 
the Catholic peasantry into 
legalized revolt upon the other 
side, so that Camisard and 



Florentin skulked for each 
other's lives among the moun- 
tains ? 

Just on the brow of the 
hill, where I paused to look 
before me, the series of stone 
pillars came abruptly to an 
end; and only a little below, 
a sort of track appeared and 
began to go down a break- 
neck slope, turning like a 
corkscrew as it went. It led 
into a valley between falling 
hills, stubbly with rocks like a 
reaped field of corn, and 
floored further down with 
green meadows. I followed 
the track with precipitation; 
the steepness of the slope, the 
continual agile turning of the 
line of descent, and the old un- 
wearied hope of finding some- 
thing new in a new country, 
all conspired to lend me wings. 
Yet a little lower and a stream 
began, collecting itself to- 
172 



gether out of many fountains, 
and soon making a glad noise 
among the hills. Sometimies 
it would cross the track in a 
bit of waterfall, with a pool, 
in which Modestine refreshed 
her feet. 

The whole descent is like a 
dream to me, so rapidly was 
it accomplished. I had scarce- 
ly left the summit ere the val- 
ley had closed round my path, 
and the sun beat upon me, 
walking in a stagnant lowland 
atmosphere, The track be- 
came a road, and went up and 
down in easy undulations. I 
passed cabin after cabin, but 
all seemed deserted ; and I 
saw not a human creature, nor 
heard any sound except that 
of the stream. I was, how- 
ever, in a different country 
from the day before. The 
stony skeleton of the world 
was here vigorously displayed 



to sun and air. The slopes 
were steep and changeful. 
Oak-trees clung along the 
hills, well grown, wealthy in 
leaf, and touched by the au- 
tumn with strong and lumi- 
nous colors. Here and there 
another stream would fall in 
from the right or the left, 
down a gorge of snow-white 
and tumultuary boulders. The 
river in the bottom (for it 
was rapidly growing a river, 
collecting on all hands as it 
trotted on its way) here 
foamed awhile in desperate 
rapids, and there lay in pools 
of the most enchanting sea- 
green shot with watery browns. 
As far as I have gone, I have 
never seen a river of so 
changeful and delicate a hue ; 
crystal was not more clear, the 
meadows were not by half so 
green; and at every pool I 
saw I felt a thrill of longing 



to be out of these hot, dusty, 
and material garments, and 
bathe my naked body in the 
mountain air and water. All 
the time as I went on I nevsr 
forgot it was the Sabbath ; 
the stillness was a perpetual 
reminder; and I heard in 
spirit the church-bells clamor- 
ing all over Europe, and the 
psalms of a thousand churches. 
At length a human sound 
struck upon my ear — a cry 
strangely modulated between 
pathos and derision ; and look- 
ing across the valley, I saw a 
little urchin sitting in a mead- 
ow, with his hands about his 
knees, and dwarfed to almost 
comical smallness by the dis- 
tance. But the rogue had 
picked me out as I went down 
the road, from oak-wood on 
to oak-wood, dri#ng Modes- 
tine ; and he made me the 
compliments of the new coun- 
175 



try in this tremulous high- 
pitched salutation. And as all 
noises are lovely and natural 
at a sufficient distance, this 
also, coming through so much 
clean hill air and crossing all 
the green valley, sounded 
pleasant to my ear, and 
seemed a thing rustic, like 
the oaks or the river. 

A little after, the stream 
that I was following fell into 
the Tarn, at Pont de Mont- 
vert of bloody memory. 



176 



PONT DE MONTVERT 

One of the first things I en- 
countered in Pont de Mont- 
vert was, if I remember right- 
ly, the Protestant temple; but 
this was but the type of other 
novelties. A subtle atmo- 
sphere distinguishes a town in 
England from a town in 
France, or even in Scotland, 
At Carlisle you can see you 
are in one country; at Dum- 
fries, thirty miles away, you 
are as sure that you are in the 
other. I should find it diffi- 
cult to tell in what particulars 
Pont de Montvert diifered 
from Monastier or Langogne, 
or even Bleymard ; but the 
difference existed, and spoke 
eloquently to the eyes. The 
place, with its houses, its 

12 177 



lanes, its glaring river-bed, 
wore an indescribable air of 
the South. 

All was Sunday bustle in 
the streets and in the public- 
house, as all had been Sab- 
bath peace among the moun- 
tains. There must have been 
near a score of us at dinner 
by eleven before noon; and 
after I had eaten and drunken, 
and sat writing up my jour- 
nal, I suppose as many more 
came dropping in one after 
another, or by twos and threes. 
In crossing the Lozere I had 
not only come among new 
natural features, but moved 
into the territory of a differ- 
ent race. These people, as 
they hurriedly despatched their 
viands in an intricate sword- 
play of knives, questioned and 
answered me with a degree of 
intelligence which excelled all 
that I had met, except among 
178 



the railway folk at Chasser- 
ades. They had open telling 
faces, and were lively both in 
speech and manner. They 
not only entered thoroughly 
into the spirit of my little 
trip, but more than one de- 
clared, if he were rich enough, 
he would like to set forth on 
such anothei. 

Even physically there was 
a pleasant change. I had not 
seen a pretty woman since I 
left Monastier, and there but 
one. Now of the three who 
sat down with me to dinner, 
one was certainly not beauti- 
ful — a poor timid thing of 
forty, quite troubled at this 
roaring table d'hote, whom I 
squired and helped to wine, 
and pledged and tried gen- 
erally to encourage, with quite 
a contrary effect; but the 
other two, both married, were 
both more handsome than the 
179 



average of women. And 
Clarisse? What shall I say of 
Clarisse? She waited on the 
table with a heavy placable 
nonchalance, like a perform- 
ing cow; her great gray eyes 
were steeped in amorous lan- 
guor; her features, although 
fleshy, were of an original and 
accurate design ; her mouth 
had a curl; her nostril spoke 
of dainty pride ; her cheek fell 
into strange and interesting 
lines. It was a face capable 
of strong emotion, and, with 
training, it oifered the prom- 
ise of delicate sentiment. It 
seemed pitiful to see so good 
a model left to country ad- 
mirers and a country way of 
thought. Beauty should at 
least have touched society, 
then, in a moment, it throws 
off a weight that lay upon it, 
it becomes conscious of itself, 
it puts on an elegance, learns 

i8o 



a gait and a carriage of the 
head, and, in a moment, patet 
(lea. Before I left I assured 
Clarisse of my hearty admira- 
tion. She took it like milk, 
without embarrassment or 
wonder, merely looking at me 
steadily with her great eyes ; 
and I own the result upon my- 
self was some confusion. If 
Clarisse could read English, 
I should not dare to add that 
her figure was unworthy of 
her face. Hers was a case for 
stays ; but that may perhaps 
grow better as she gets up in 
years. 

Pont de Montvert, or Green- 
hill Bridge, as we might say 
at home, is a place memorable 
in the story of the Camisards. 
It was here that the war broke 
out; here that those southern 
Covenanters slew their Arch- 
bishop Sharpe. The persecu- 
tion on the one hand, the 

i8i 



febrile enthusiasm on the 
other, are almost equally diffi- 
cult to understand in these 
quiet modern days, and with 
our easy modern beliefs and 
disbeliefs. The Protestants 
were one and all beside their 
right minds with zeal and sor- 
row. They were all prophets 
and prophetesses. Children 
at the breast would exhort 
their parents to good works. 
"A child of iifteen months at 
Quissac spoke from its moth- 
er's arms, agitated and sob- 
bing, distinctly and with a 
loud voice." Marshal Villars 
has seen a town where all the 
women "seemed possessed by 
the devil," and had trembling 
fits, and uttered prophecies 
publicly upon the streets. A 
prophetess of Vivarais was 
hanged at Montpellier be- 
cause blood flowed from her 
eyes and nose, and she de- 



Glared that she was weeping 
tears of blood for the mis- 
fortunes of the Protestants. 
And it was not only women 
and children. Stalwart dan- 
gerous fellows, used to swing 
the sickle or to wield the 
forest ax, were likewise 
shaken with strange parox- 
ysms, and spoke oracles with 
sobs and streaming tears. A 
persecution unsurpassed in 
violence had lasted near a 
score of years, and this was 
the result upon the perse- 
cuted ; hanging, burning, 
breaking on the wheel, had 
been vain ; the dragoons had 
left their hoof-marks over all 
the country-side ; there were 
men rowing in the galleys, 
and women pining in the pris- 
ons of the Church ; and not a 
thought was changed in the 
heart of any upright Protest- 
ant. 

183 



Now the head and fore- 
front of the persecution — af- 
ter Lamoignon de Bavile — 
Frangois de Langlade du 
Chayla (pronounced Cheila), 
Archpriest of the Cevennes 
and Inspector of Missions in 
the same country, had a house 
in which he sometimes dwelt 
in the town of Pont de Mont- 
vert. He was a conscientious 
person, who seems to have 
been intended by nature for a 
pirate, and now fifty-five, an 
age by which a man has 
learned all the moderation of 
which he is capable. A mis- 
sionary in his youth in China, 
he there suffered martyrdom, 
was left for dead, and only 
succored and brought back to 
life by the charity of a pariah. 
We must suppose the pariah 
devoid of second sight, and 
not purposely malicious in this 
act. Such an experience, it 



might be thought, would have 
cured a man of the desire to 
persecute; but the human 
spirit is a thing strangely put 
together; and, having been a 
Christian martyr, Du Chayla 
became a Christian persecutor. 
The Work of the Propagation 
of the Faith went roundly 
forward in Iiis hands. His 
house in Pont de Montvert 
served him as a prison. There 
he plucked out the hairs of 
the beard, and closed the 
hands of his prisoners upon 
live coals, to convince them 
that they were deceived in 
their opinions. And yet had 
not he himself tried and 
proved the ineflicacy of these 
carnal arguments among the 
Buddhists in China? 

Not only was life made in- 
tolerable in Languedoc, but 
flight was rigidly forbidden. 
One Massip, a muleteer, and 
1S5 



well acquainted with the 
mountain-paths, had already 
guided several troops of fugi- 
tives in safety to Geneva ; and 
on him, with another convoy, 
consisting mostly of women 
dressed as men, Du Chayla, 
in an evil hour for himself, 
laid his hands. The Sunday 
following, there was a con- 
venticle of Protestants in the 
woods of Altefage upon Mont 
Bouges ; where there stood up 
one Seguier — Spirit Seguier, 
as his companions called him 
— a wool-carder, tall, black- 
faced, and toothless, but a 
man full of prophecy. He 
declared, in the name of God, 
that the time for submission 
had gone by, and they must 
betake themselves to arms for 
the deliverance of their breth- 
ren and the destruction of the 
priests. 

The next night, 24th July, 



1702, a sound disturbed the 
Inspector of Missions as he 
sat in his prison-house at 
Pont de Montvert; the voices 
of many men upraised in 
psalmody drew nearer and 
nearer through the town. It 
was ten at night ; he had his 
court about him, priests, sol- 
diers, and servants, to the 
number of twelve or fifteen; 
and now dreading the inso- 
lence of a conventicle below 
his very windows, he ordered 
forth his soldiers to report. 
But the psalm-singers were al- 
ready at his door, fifty strong, 
led by the inspired Seguier, 
and breathing death. To their 
summons, the archpriest made 
answer like a stout old perse- 
cutor, and bade his garrison 
fire upon the mob. One Cam- 
isard (for, according to some, 
it was in this night's work 
that they came by the name) 
187 



fell at this discharge ; his 
comrades burst in the door 
with hatchets and a beam of 
wood, overran the lower story 
of the house, set free the pris- 
oners, and finding one of 
them in the mnc, a sort of 
Scavenger's Daughter of the 
place and period, redoubled 
in fury against Du Chayla, 
and sought by repeated as- 
saults to carry the upper 
floors. But he, on his side, 
had given absolution to his 
men, and they bravely held 
the staircase. 

"Children of God," cried 
the prophet, "hold your hands. 
Let us burn the house, with 
the priest and the satellites of 
Baal." 

The fire caught readily. 
Out of an upper window Du 
Chayla and his men lowered 
themselves into the garden by 
means of knotted sheets ; some 

i88 



escaped across the river under 
the bullets of the insurgents ; 
but the archpriest himself fell, 
broke his thigh, and could 
only crawl into the hedge. 
What were his reflections as 
this second martyrdom drew 
near? A poor, brave, besot- 
ted, hateful man, who had 
done his duty resolutely ac- 
cording to his light both in 
the Cevennes and China. He 
found at least one telling 
word to say in his defense ; 
for when the roof fell in and 
the upbursting flames discov- 
ered his retreat, and they 
came and dragged him to the 
public place of the town, rag- 
ing and calling him damned — 
"If I be damned," said he, 
"why should you also damn 
yourselves?" 

Here was a good reason for 
the last ; but in the course of 
his inspectorship he had given 
189 



many stronger which all told 
m a contrary direction; and 
these he was now to hear. 
One by one, Seguier first, the 
Camisards drew near and 
stabbed him. "This," they 
said, "is for my father broken 
on the wheel. This for my 
brother in the galleys. That 
for my mother or my sister 
imprisoned in your cursed 
convents." Each gave his 
blow and his reason ; and then 
all kneeled and sang psalms 
around the body till the 
dawn. With the dawn, still 
singing, they defiled away to- 
ward Frugeres, further up the 
Tarn, to pursue the work of 
vengeance, leaving Du Chay- 
la's prison-house in ruins, and 
his body pierced with two- 
and-fifty wounds upon the 
public place. 

'T is a wild night's work, 
with its accompaniment of 
psalms; and it seems as if a 



psalm must always have a 
sound of threatening in that 
town upon the Tarn. But 
the story does not end, even 
so far as concerns Pont de 
Montvert, with the departure 
of the Camisards. The career 
of Seguier was brief and 
bloody. Two more priests 
and a w^iole family at Lade- 
veze, from the father to the 
servants, fell by his hand or 
by his orders ; and yet he was 
but a day or two at large, and 
restrained all the time by the 
presence of the soldiery. 
Taken at length by a famous 
soldier of fortune, Captain 
Poul, he appeared unmoved 
before his judges. 

"Your name?" they asked. 

"Pierre Seguier." 

"Why are you called Spir- 
it?" 

"Because the Spirit of the 
Lord is with me." 

"Your domicile?" 



"Lately in the desert, and 
soon in heaven." 

"Have you no remorse for 
your crimes?" 

"I have committed none. 
My soul is like a garden full 
of shelter' and of fountains." 

At Pont de Montvert, on 
the 12th of August, he had 
his right hand stricken from 
his body, and was burned 
alive. And his soul was like 
a garden? So perhaps was 
the soul of Du Chayla, the 
Christian martyr. And per- 
haps if you could read in my 
soul, or I could read in yours, 
our own composure might 
seem little less surprising. 

Du Chayla's house still 
stands, with a new roof, be- 
side one of the bridges of the 
town; and if you are curious 
you may see the terrace-gar- 
den into which he dropped. 

192 



IN THE VALLEY OF 
THE TARN 

A NEW road leads from Pont 
de Montvert to Florae by the 
valley of the Tarn ; a smooth 
sandy ledge, it runs about 
half-way between the summiit 
of the cliffs and the river in 
the bottom of the valley ; and 
I went in and out, as I fol- 
lowed it, from bays of shadow 
into promontories of after- 
noon sun. This was a pass 
like that of Killiecrankie ; a 
deep turning gully in the 
hills, with the Tarn making a 
wonderful hoarse uproar far 
below, and craggy summits 
standing in the sunshine high 
above. A thin fringe of ash- 
trees ran about the hill-tops, 

13 Z93 



like ivy on a ruin ; but on the 
lower slopes and far up every 
glen the Spanish chestnut- 
trees stood each four-square 
to heaven under its tented 
foliage. Some were planted 
each on its own terrace, no 
larger than a bed ; some, trust- 
ing in their roots, found 
strength to grow and prosper 
and be straight and large up- 
on the rapid slopes of the val- 
ley; others, where there was 
a margin to the river, stood 
marshaled in a line and 
mighty like cedars of Leb- 
anon. Yet even where they 
grew most thickly they were 
not to be thought of as a 
wood, but as a herd of stal- 
wart individuals ; and the 
dome of each tree stood forth 
separate and large, and as it 
were a little hill, from among 
the domes of its companions. 
They gave forth a faint sweet 

194 



perfume which pervaded the 
air of the afternoon ; autumn 
had put tints of gold and tar- 
nish in the green ; and the sun 
so shone through and kindled 
the broad foliage, that each 
chestnut was relieved against 
another, not in shadow, but 
in light. A humble sketcher 
here laid down his pencil in 
despair. 

I wish I could convey a no- 
tion of the growth of these 
noble trees; of how they 
strike out boughs like the oak, 
and trail sprays of drooping 
foliage like the willow; of 
how they stand on upright 
fluted columns like the pillars 
of a church ; or like the olive, 
from the most shattered bole 
can put out smooth and youth- 
ful shoots, and begin a new 
life upon the ruins of the old. 
Thus they partake of the na- 
ture of manv different trees ; 



and even their prickly top- 
knots, seen near at hand 
against the sky, have a cer- 
tain palm-like air that im- 
presses the imagination. But 
their individuality, although 
compounded of so many ele- 
ments, is but the richer and 
the more original. And to 
look down upon a level filled 
with these knolls of foliage, 
or to see a clan of old uncon- 
querable chestnuts cluster 
"like herded elephants" upon 
the spur of a mountain, is to 
rise to higher thoughts of the 
powers that are in Nature. 

Between Modestine's lag- 
gard humor and the beauty 
of the scene, we made little 
progress all that afternoon; 
and at last finding the sun, 
although still far from set- 
ting, was already beginning to 
desert the narrow valley of 
the Tarn, I began to cast 
196 



about for a place to camp in. 
This was not easy to find; 
the terraces were too narrow, 
and the ground, where it was 
unterraced, was usually too 
steep for a man to lie upon. 
I should have slipped all 
night, and awakened toward 
morning with my feet or my 
head in the river. 

After perhaps a mile, I 
saw, some sixty feet above 
the road, a little plateau large 
enough to hold my sack, and 
securely parapeted by the 
trunk of an aged and enor- 
mous chestnut. Thither, with 
infinite trouble, I goaded and 
kicked the reluctant Modes- 
tine, and there I hastened to 
unload her. There was only 
room for myself upon the pla- 
teau, and I had to go nearly 
as high again before I found 
so much as standing room for 
the ass. It was on a heap of 
197 



rolling stones, on an artificial 
terrace, certainly not five feet 
square in all. Here I tied her 
to a chestnut, and having 
given her corn and bread and 
made a pile of chestnut-leaves, 
of which I found her greedy, 
I descended once more to my 
own encampment. 

The position was unpleas- 
antly exposed. One or two 
carts went by upon the road; 
and as long as daylight lasted 
I concealed myself, for all the 
world like a hunted Camisard, 
behind my fortification of vast 
chestnut trunk ; for I was pas- 
sionately afraid of discovery 
and the visit of jocular per- 
sons in the night. Moreover, 
I saw that I must be early 
awake; for these chestnut 
gardens had been the scene of 
industry no farther gone than 
on the day before. The 
slope was strewn with lopped 
198 



branches, and here and there 
a great package of leaves was 
propped against a trunk; for 
even the leaves are serviceable, 
and the peasants use them in 
winter by way of fodder for 
their animals. I picked a meal 
in fear and trembling, half 
lying down to hide myself 
from the road; and I dare 
say I was as much concerned 
as if I had been a scout from 
Joani's band above upon the 
Lozere or from Salomon's 
across the Tarn in the old 
times of psalm-singing and 
blood. Or, indeed, perhaps 
more; for the Camisards had 
a remarkable confidence in 
God ; and a tale comes back 
into my memory of how the 
Count of Gevaudan, riding 
with a party of dragoons and 
a notary at his saddlebow to 
enforce the oath of fidelity in 
all the country hamlets, en- 
199 



tered a valley in the woods, 
and found Cavalier and his 
men at dinner, gaily seated on 
the grass, and their hats 
crowned with box-tree gar- 
lands, while fifteen women 
washed their linen in the 
stream. Such was a field fes- 
tival in 1703; at that date 
Antony Watteau would be 
painting similar subjects. 

This was a very different 
camp from that of the night 
before in the cool and silent 
pine-woods. It was warm and 
even stifling in the valley. The 
shrill song of frogs, like the 
tremolo note of a whistle with 
a pea in it, rang up from the 
riverside before the sun was 
down. In the growing dusk, 
faint rustlings began to run 
to and fro among the fallen 
leaves; from time to time a 
faint chirping or cheeping 
noise would fall upon my ear ; 



and from time to time I 
thought I could see the move- 
ment of something swift and 
indistinct between the chest- 
nuts. A profusion of large ants 
swarmed upon the ground ; 
bats whisked by, and mosqui- 
toes droned overhead. The 
long boughs with their 
bunches or leaves hung 
against the sky like garlands ; 
and those immediately above 
and around me had somewhat 
the air of a trellis which 
should have been wrecked 
and half overthrown in a 
gale of wind. 

Sleep for a long time fled 
my eyelids ; and just as I was 
beginning to feel quiet stealing 
over my limbs, and settling 
densely on my mind, a noise 
at my head startled me broad 
awake again, and, I will 
frankly confess it, brought my 
heart into my mouth. It was 



such a noise as a person would 
make scratching loudly with a 
finger-nail, it came from un- 
der the knapsack which served 
me for a pillow, and it was 
thrice repeated before I had 
time to sit up and turn about. 
Nothing was to be seen, noth- 
ing more was to be heard, but 
a few of these mysterious rust- 
lings far and near, and the 
ceaseless accompaniment of 
the river and the frogs. I 
learned next day that the 
chestnut gardens are infested 
by rats; rustling, chirping, 
and scraping were probably 
all due to these ; but the puz- 
zle, for the moment, was 
insoluble, and I had to com- 
pose myself for sleep, as best 
I could, in wondering un- 
certainty about my neigh- 
bors. 

I was wakened in the gray 
of the morning (Monday, 



30th September) by the sound 
of footsteps not far off upon 
the stones, and opening my 
eyes, I beheld a peasant gomg 
by among the chestnuts by a 
foot-path that I had not 
hitherto observed. He turned 
his head neither to the right 
nor to the left, and disap- 
peared in a-iew strides among 
the foliage. Here was an es- 
cape ! But it was plainly 
more than time to be moving. 
The peasantry were abroad; 
scarce less terrible to me in 
my nondescript position than 
the soldiers of Captain Poul 
to an undaunted Camisard. I 
fed Modestine with what haste 
I could; but as I was return- 
ing to my sack, T saw a man 
and a boy come down the hill- 
side in a direction crossing 
mine. They unintelligibly 
hailed me, and I replied with 
inarticulate but cheerful 



sounds, and hurried forward 
to get into my gaiters. 

The pair, who seemed to be 
father and son, came slowly 
up to the plateau, and stood 
close beside me for some time 
in silence. The bed was open, 
and I saw with regret my re- 
volver lying patently disclosed 
on the blue wool. At last, af- 
ter they had looked me all 
over, and silence had grown 
laughably embarrassing, the 
man demanded in what seemed 
unfriendly tones : 

"You have slept here?" 

"Yes," said I. "As you 
see." 

"Why?" he asked. 

"My faith," I answered 
lightly, "I was tired." 

He next inquired where I 
was going and what I had had 
for dinner; and then, without 
the least transition, " C est 
bien/' he added. "Come 



along." And he and his son, 
without another word, turned 
off to the next chestnut-tree 
but one, which they set to 
pruning. The thing had 
passed off more simply than 
I hoped. He was a grave, re- 
spectable man; and his un- 
friendly voice did not imply 
that he thought he was speak- 
ing to a criminal, but merely 
to an inferior. 

I was soon on the road, 
nibbling a cake of chocolate 
and seriously occupied with a 
case of conscience. Was I to 
pay for my night's lodging? 
I had slept ill, the bed was 
full of fleas in the shape of 
ants, there was no water in 
the room, the very dawn had 
neglected to call me in the 
morning. I might have 
missed a train, had there been 
any in the neighborhood to 
catch. Clearly, I was dissat- 



isfied with my entertainment ; 
and I decided I should not 
pay unless I met a beggar. 

The valley looked even love- 
lier by morning ; and soon the 
road descended to the level of 
the river. Here, in a place 
where many straight and pros- 
perous chestnuts stood to- 
gether, making an aisle upon 
a swarded terrace, I made my 
morning toilet in the water of 
the Tarn. It was marvelously 
clear, thrillingly cool ; the 
soap-suds disappeared as if by 
magic in the swift current, 
and the white boulders gave 
one a model for cleanliness. 
To wash in one of God's riv- 
ers in the open air seems to me 
a sort of cheerful solemnity or 
semi-pagan act of worship. 
To dabble among dishes in a 
bedroom may perhaps make 
clean the body ; but the imag- 
ination takes no share in such 
206 



a cleansing. I went on with 
a light and peaceful heart, and 
sang psalms to the spiritual 
ear as I advanced. 

Suddenly up came an old 
woman, who point-blank de- 
manded alms. 

"Good!" thought I; "here 
comes the waiter with the 
bill." 

And I paid for my night's 
lodging on the spot. Take it 
how you please, but this was 
the first and the last beggar 
that I met with during all 
my tour. 

A step or two farther I was 
overtaken by an old man in 
a brown nightcap, clear-eyed, 
weather-beaten, with a faint, 
excited smile. A little girl 
followed him, driving two 
sheep and a goat ; but she kept 
in our wake, while the old 
man walked beside me and 
talked about the morning and 
207 



the valley. It was not much 
past six ; and for healthy peo- 
ple who have slept enough, 
that is an hour of expansion 
and of open and trustful talk. 

" Connaissez-voiis le Sei- 
gneur?" he said at length. 

I asked him what Seigneur 
he meant ; but he only re- 
peated the question with more 
emphasis and a look in his 
eyes denoting hope and in- 
terest. 

"Ah!" said I, pointing up- 
ward, " I understand you now. 
Yes, I know Him; He is the 
best of acquaintances." 

The old man said he was 
delighted. "Hold," he added, 
striking his bosom; "it makes 
me happy here." There were 
a few who knew the Lord in 
these valleys, he went on to 
tell me; not many, but a few. 
"Many are called," he quoted, 
"and few chosen." 



''My father," said I, ''it is 
not easy to say who know the 
Lord ; and it is none of our 
business. Protestants and 
Catholics, and even those who 
worship stones, may know 
Him and be known by Him ; 
for He has made all." 

I did not know I was so 
good a preacher. 

The old man assured me he 
thought as I did, and re- 
peated his expressions of 
pleasure at meeting me. "We 
are so few," he said. "They 
call us Moravians here; but 
down in the department of 
Gard, where there are also a 
good number, they are called 
Derbists, after an English 
pastor." 

I began to understand that 
I was figuring, in questionable 
taste, as a member of some 
sect to me unknown; but I 
was more pleased with the 
1* 209 



pleasure of my companion 
than embarrassed by my own 
equivocal position. Indeed I 
can see no dishonesty in not 
avowing a difference; and es- 
pecially in these high matters, 
where we have all a sufficient 
assurance that, whoever may 
be in the wrong, we ourselves 
are not completely in the 
right. The truth is much 
talked about; but this old 
man in a brown nightcap 
showed himself so simple, 
sweet, and friendly that I am 
not unwilling to profess my- 
self his convert. He was, as 
a matter of fact, a Plymouth 
Brother. Of what that involves 
in the way of doctrine I have 
no idea nor the time to in- 
form myself ; but I know right 
well that we are all embarked 
upon a troublesome world, the 
children of one Father, striv- 
mg in many essential points 



to do and to become the same. 
And although it was some- 
what in a mistake that he 
shook hands with me so often 
and showed himself so ready- 
to receive my words, that was 
a mistake of the truth-finding 
sort. For charity begins 
blindfold ; and only through a 
series of similar misapprehen- 
sions rises at length into a 
settled principle of love and 
patience, and a firm belief in 
all our fellow-men. If I de- 
ceived this good old man, in 
the like manner I would will- 
ingly go on to deceive others. 
And if ever (at length, out of 
our separate and sad ways, we 
should all come together into 
one common house, I have a 
hope, to which I cling clearly, 
that my mountain Plymouth 
Brother will hasten to shake 
hands with me again. 

Thus, talking like Chris- 



tian and Faithful by the way, 
he and I came down upon a 
hamlet by the Tarn. It was 
but a humble place, called La 
Vernede, with less than a 
dozen houses, and a Protest- 
ant chapel on a knoll. Here 
he dwelt ; and here, at the inn, 
I ordered my breakfast. The 
inn was kept by an agreeable 
young man, a stone-breaker on 
the road, and his sister, a 
jDretty and engaging girl. The 
village schoolmaster dropped 
in to speak with the stranger. 
And these were all Protestants 
— a fact which pleased me 
more than I should have ex- 
pected ; and, Avhat pleased me 
still more, they seemed all up- 
right and simple people. The 
Plymouth Brother hung round 
me with a sort of yearning in- 
terest, and returned at least 
thrice to make sure I was en- 
joying my meal. His behav- 



ior touched me deeply at the 
time, and even now moves me 
in recollection. He feared to 
intrude, but he would not will- 
ingly forego one moment of 
my society; and he seemed 
never weary of shaking me by 
the hand. 

When all the rest had 
drifted to their day's work, I 
sat for near h^lf an hour with 
the young mistress of the 
house, who talked pleasantly 
over her seam of the chestnut 
harvest, and the beauties of 
the Tarn, and old family af- 
fections, broken up when 
young folk go from home, yet 
still subsisting. Hers, I am 
sure, was a sweet nature, with 
a country plainness and much 
delicacy underneath ; and he 
who takes her to his heart will 
doubtless be a fortunate young 
man. 

The valley below La Ver- 



nede pleased me more and 
more as I went forward. Now 
the hills approached from 
either hand, naked and crum- 
bling, and walled in the river 
between cliffs ; and now the 
valley widened and became 
green. The road led me past 
the old castle of Miral on a 
steep ; past a battlemented 
monastery, long since broken 
up and turned into a church 
and parsonage; and past a 
cluster of black roofs, the vil- 
lage of Cocures, sitting among 
vineyards and meadows and 
orchards thick with red ap- 
ples, and where, along the 
highway, they were knocking 
down walnuts from the road- 
side trees, and gathering them 
in sacks and baskets. The 
hills, however much the vale 
might open, were still tall and 
bare, with cliffy battlements 
and here and there a pointed 



summit ; and the Tarn still 
rattled through the stones 
with a mountain noise. I had 
been led, by bagmen of a pic- 
turesque turn of mind, to ex- 
pect a horrific country after 
the heart of Byron; but to 
my Scotch eyes it seemed smil- 
ing and plentiful, as the 
weather still gave an impres- 
sion of high summer to my 
Scotch body; although the 
chestnuts were already picked 
out by the autumn, and the 
poplars, that here began to 
mingle with them, had turned 
into pale gold against the ap- 
proach of winter. 

There was something in this 
landscape, smiling although 
wild, that explained to me the 
spirit of the Southern Cov- 
enanters. Those who took to 
the hills for conscience' sake 
in Scotland had all gloomy 
and bedevilled thoughts; for 



once that they received God's 
comfort they would be twice 
engaged with Satan ; but the 
Camisards had only bright 
and supporting visions. They 
dealt much more in blood, 
both given and taken; yet I 
find no obsession of the Evil 
One in their records. With a 
light conscience, they pursued 
their life in these rough times 
and circumstances. The soul 
of Seguier, let us not forget, 
was like a garden. They knew 
they were on God's side, with 
a knowledge that has no par- 
allel among the Scots; for 
the Scots, although they might 
be certain of the cause, could 
never rest confident of the 
person. 

"We flew," says one old 
Camisard, "when we heard 
the sound of psalm-singing, 
we flew as if with wings. We 
felt within us an animating 
216 



ardor, a transporting desire. 
The feeling cannot be ex- 
pressed in words. It is a thing 
that must have been experi- 
enced to be understood. How- 
ever weary we might be, we 
thought no more of our weari- 
ness and grew light, so soon 
as the psalms fell upon our 
ears." 

The valley of the Tarn and 
the people whom I met at La 
Vernede not only explain to 
me this passage, but the twen- 
ty years of suffering which 
those, who were so stiff and so 
bloody when once they betook 
themselves to war, endured 
with the meekness of children 
and the constancy of saints 
and peasants. 



317 



FLORAC 

On a branch of the Tarn 
stands Florae, the seat of a 
subprefecture, with an old 
castle, an alley of planes, 
many quaint street-corners, 
and a live fountain welling 
from the hill. It is notable, 
besides, for handsome women, 
and as one of the two capitols, 
Alais being the other, of the 
country of the Camisards. 

The landlord of the inn 
took me, after I had eaten, to 
an adjoining caje, where I, or 
rather my journey, became the 
topic of the afternoon. Every 
one had some suggestion for 
my guidance; and the sub- 
prefectorial map was fetched 
from the subprefecture itself, 
and much thumbed among 



coffee-cups and glasses of 
liqueur. Most of these kind 
advisers were Protestant, 
though I observed that Prot- 
estant and Catholic intermin- 
gled in a very easy manner ; 
and it surprised me to see 
what a lively memory still 
subsisted of the religious war. 
Among the hills of the south- 
west, by Mauchline, Cumnock, 
or Carsphairn, in isolated 
farms or in the manse, serious 
Presbyterian people still recall 
the days of the great persecu- 
tion, and the graves of local 
martyrs are still piously re- 
garded. But in towns and 
among the so-called better 
classes, I fear that these old 
doings have become an idle 
tale. If you met a mixed 
company in the King's Arms 
at Wigtown, it is not likely 
that the talk would run on 
Covenanters. Nay, at Muir- 
219 



kirk of Glenluce, I found the 
beadle's wife had not so much 
as heard of Prophet Peden. 
But these Cevenols were 
proud of their ancestors in 
quite another sense ; the war 
was their chosen topic ; its ex- 
ploits were their ov/n patent 
of nobility ; and where a man 
or a race has had but one ad- 
venture, and that heroic, we 
must expect and pardon some 
prolixity of reference. They 
told me the country was still 
full of legends hitherto uncol- 
lected; I heard from them 
about Cavalier's descendants 
— not direct descendants, be 
it understood, but only cousins 
or nephews — who were still 
prosperous people in the scene 
of the boy-general's exploits; 
and one farmer had seen the 
bones of old combatants dug 
up into the air of an afternoon 
in the nineteenth century, in a 



field where the ancestors had 
fought, and the great-grand- 
children were peaceably ditch- 
ing. 

Later in the day one of the 
Protestant pastors was so good 
as to visit me : a young man, 
intelligent and polite, with 
whom I passed an hour or two 
in talk. Florae, he told me, is 
part Protestant, part Catholic ; 
and the difference in religion 
is usually doubled by the dif- 
ference in politics. You may 
judge of my surprise, coming 
as I did from such a babbling 
purgatorial Poland of a place 
as Monastier, when I learned 
that the population lived to- 
gether on very quiet terms; 
and there was even an ex- 
change of hospitalities be- 
tween households thus doubly 
separated. Black Camisard 
and White Camisard, militia- 
man and Miquelet and dra- 



goon, Protestant prophet and 
Catholic cadet of the White 
Cross, they had all been saber- 
ing and shooting, burning, pil- 
laging and murdering, their 
hearts hot with indignant pas- 
sion; and here, after a hun- 
dred and seventy years, Prot- 
estant is still Protestant, Cath- 
olic still Catholic, in mutual 
toleration and mild amity of 
life. But the race of man, 
like that indomitable nature 
whence it sprang, has medicat- 
ing virtues of its own; the 
years and seasons bring vari- 
ous harvests ; the sun returns 
after the rain ; and mankind 
outlives secular animosities, as 
a single man awakens from the 
passions of a day. We judge 
our ancestors from a more di- 
vine position ; and the dust 
being a little laid with several 
centuries, we can see both 
sides adorned with human vir- 



tues and fighting with a show 
of-right. 

I have never thought it easy 
to be just, and find it daily 
even harder than I thought. 
I own I met these Protestants 
with delight and a sense of 
coming home. I was accus- 
tomed to speak their language, 
in another and deeper sense of 
the word than that which dis- 
tinguishes between French and 
English ; for the true babel is 
a divergence upon morals. 
And hence I could hold more 
free communication with the 
Protestants, and judge them 
more justly, than the Cath- 
olics. Father Apollinaris may 
pair off with my mountain 
Plymouth Brother as two 
guileless and devout old men ; 
yet I ask myself if I had as 
ready a feeling for the vir- 
tues of the Trappist; or had 
I been a Catholic, if I should 
223 



have felt so warmly to the dis- 
senter of La Vernede. With 
the first I was on terms of 
mere forbearance ; but with 
the other, although only on a 
misunderstanding and by keep- 
ing on selected points, it was 
still possible to hold converse 
and exchange some honest 
thoughts. In this world of 
imperfection we gladly wel- 
come even partial intimacies. 
If we find but one to whom 
we can speak out of our heart 
freely, with whom we can 
walk in love and simplicity 
without dissimulation, we 
have no ground of quarrel 
with the world or God. 



224 



IN THE VALLEY OF 
THE MIMENTE 

On Tuesday, 1st October, we 
left Florae late in the after- 
noon, a tired donkey and tired 
donkey-driver. A little way 
up the Tarnon, a covered 
bridge of wood introduced us 
into the valley of the Mi- 
mente. Steep rocky red moun- 
tains overhung the stream ; 
great oaks and chestnuts grew 
upon the slopes or in stony 
terraces; here and there was 
a red field of millet or a few 
apple-trees studded with red 
apples ; and the road passed 
hard by two black hamlets, 
one with an old castle atop to 
please the heart of the tourist. 
It was difficult here again 

15 225 



to find a spot fit for my en- 
campment. Even under the 
oaks and chestnuts the ground 
had not only a very rapid 
slope, but was heaped with 
loose stones ; and where there 
was no timber the hills de- 
scended to the stream in a red 
precipice tufted with heather. 
The sun had left the highest 
peak in front of me, and the 
valley was full of the lowing 
sound of herdsmen's horns as 
they recalled the flocks into 
the stable, when I spied a 
bight of meadow some way 
below the roadway in an an- 
gle of the river. Thither I 
descended, and, tying Mo- 
destine provisionally to a tree, 
proceeded to investigate the 
neighborhood. A gray pearly 
evening shadow filled the 
glen; objects at a little dis- 
tance grew indistinct and 
melted bafilingly into each 
226 



other ; and the darkness was 
rising steadily like an exhala- 
tion. I approached a great 
oak which grew in the mead- 
ow, hard by the river's brink ; 
when to my disgust the voices 
of children fell upon my ear, 
and I beheld a house round 
the angle on the other bank. 
I had half a mind to pack 
and be gone again, but the 
growing darkness moved me 
to remain. I had only to 
make no noise until the night 
was fairly come, and trust to 
the dawn to call me early in 
the morning. But it was hard 
to be annoyed by neighbors 
in such a great hotel. 

A hollow underneath the oak 
was my bed. Before I had 
fed Modestine and arranged 
my sack, three stars were al- 
ready brightly shining, and the 
others were beginning dimly 
to appear. I slipped down to 



the river, which looked very 
black among its rocks, to fill 
my can; and dined with a 
good appetite in the dark, for 
I scrupled to light a lantern 
while so near a house. The 
moon, which I had seen, a 
pallid crescent, all afternoon, 
faintly illuminated the sum- 
mit of the hills, but not a ray 
fell into the bottom of the 
glen where I was lying. The 
oak rose before me like a pil- 
lar of darkness ; and over- 
head the heartsome stars were 
set in the face of the night. 
No one knows the stars who 
has not slept, as the French 
happily put it, a la belle 
etoile. ■ He may know all 
their names and distances and 
magnitudes, and yet be igno- 
rant of what alone concerns 
mankind, their serene and 
gladsome influence on the 
mind. The greater part of 



poetry is about the stars; and 
very justly, for they are them- 
selves the most classical of 
poets. These same far-away 
worlds, sprinkled like tapers 
or shaken together like a dia- 
mond dust upon the sky, had 
looked not otherwise to Ro- 
land or Cavalier, when, in the 
words of the latter, they had 
"no other tent but the sky, 
and no other bed than my 
mother earth." 

All night a strong wind 
blew up the valley, and the 
acorns fell pattering over me 
from the oak. Yet, on this 
first night of October, the air 
was as mild as May, and I 
slept with the fur thrown 
back. 

I was much disturbed by 
the barking of a dog, an ani- 
mal that I fear more than any 
wolf. A dog is vastly braver. 
and is besides supported by 



the sense of duty. If you 
kill a wolf, you meet with en- 
couragement and praise; but 
if you kill a dog, the sacred 
rights of property and the do- 
mestic affections come clamor- 
ing round you for redress. 
At the end of a fagging day, 
the sharp, cruel note of a 
dog's bark is in itself a keen 
annoyance ; and to a tramp 
like myself, he represents the 
sedentary and respectable 
world in its most hostile form. 
There is something of the 
clergyman or the lawyer about 
this engaging animal ; and if 
he were not amenable to 
stones, the boldest man would 
shrink from traveling afoot. 
I respect dogs much in the 
domestic circle ; but on the 
highway or sleeping afield, I 
both detest and fear them. 

I was awakened next morn- 
ing (Wednesday, October 2d) 



by the same dog — for I knew 
his bark — making a charge 
down the bank, and then, see- 
ing me sit up, retreating again 
with great alacrity. The stars 
were not yet quite extin- 
guished. The heaven was of 
that enchanting mild gray- 
blue of the early morn. A 
still clear light began to fall, 
and the trees on the hillside 
were outlined sharply against 
the sky. The wind had 
veered more to the north, and 
no longer reached me in the 
glen ; but as I was going on 
with my preparations, it drove 
a white cloud very swiftly 
over the hill-top ; and looking 
up, I was surprised to see the 
cloud dyed with gold. In 
these high regions of the air, 
the sun was already shining 
as at noon. If only the clouds 
traveled high enough, we 
should see the same thing all 



night long. For it is always 
daylight in the fields of space. 

As I began to go up the 
valley, a draught of wind 
came down it out of the seat 
of the sunrise, although the 
clouds continued to run over- 
head in an almost contrary 
direction. A few steps far- 
ther, and I saw a whole hill- 
side gilded with the sun; and 
still a little beyond, between 
two peaks, a center of daz- 
zling brilliancy appeared float- 
ing in the sky, and I was once 
more face to face with the big 
bonfire that occupies the ker- 
nel of our system. 

I met but one human being 
that forenoon, a dark mili- 
tary-looking wayfarer, who 
carried a game-bag on a bal- 
dric ; but he made a remark 
that seems worthy of record. 
For when I asked him if he 
were Protestant or Catholic. 



"O," said he, '*I make no 
shame of my religion. I am 
a Catholic." 

He made no shame of it ! 
The phrase is a piece of nat- 
ural statistics ; for it is the 
language of one in a minority. 
I thought with a smile of 
Bavile and his dragoons, and 
how you may ride rough-shod 
over a religion for a century, 
and leave it only the more 
lively for the friction. Ire- 
land is still Catholic ; the 
Cevennes still Protestant. It 
is not a basketful of law-pa- 
pers, nor the hoofs and pistol- 
butts of a regiment of horse, 
that can change one tittle of 
a plowman's thoughts. Out- 
door rustic people have not 
many ideas, but such as they 
have are hardy plants and 
thrive flourishingly in perse- 
cution. One who has grown 
a long while in the sweat of 



laborious noons, and under 
the stars at night, a frequenter 
of hills and forests, an old 
honest countryman, has, in 
the end, a sense of commun- 
ion with the powers of the 
universe, and amicable rela- 
tions toward his God. Like 
my mountain Plymouth 
Brother, he knows the Lord. 
His religion does not repose 
upon a choice of logic ; it is 
the poetry of the man's ex- 
perience, the philosophy of 
the history of his life. God, 
like a great power, like a 
great shining sun, has ap- 
peared to this simple fellow 
in the course of years, and be- 
come the ground and essence 
of his least reflections ; and 
you may change creeds and 
dogmas by authority, or pro- 
claim a new religion with the 
sound of trumpets, if you 
will ; but here is a man who 
234 



has his own thoughts, and 
will stubbornly adhere to 
them in good and evil. He 
is a Catholic, a Protestant, or 
a Plymouth Brother, in the 
same indefeasible sense that a 
man is not a woman, or a 
woman not a man. For he 
could not vary from his faith, 
unless he could eradicate all 
memory of the past, and, in 
a strict and not a conventional 
meaning, change his mind. 



235 



THE HEART OF THE 
COUNTRY 

I WAS now drawing near to 
Cassagnas, a cluster of black 
roofs upon the hillside, in this 
wild valley, among chestnut 
gardens^ and looked upon in 
the clear air by many rocky 
peaks. The road along the 
Mimente is yet new, nor have 
the mountaineers recovered 
their surprise when the first 
cart arrived at Cassagnas. 
But altl.ough it lay thus apart 
from the current of men's 
business, this hamlet had al- 
ready made a figure in the 
history of France. Hard by, 
in caverns of the mountain, 
was one of the five arsenals of 
the Camisards ; where the\' 
236 



laid up clothes and corn and 
arms against necessity, forged 
bayonets and sabers, and made 
themselves gunpowder with 
willow charcoal and saltpeter 
boiled in kettles. To the 
same caves, amid this multi- 
farious industry, the sick and 
wounded wer^ brought up to 
heal ; and there they were 
visited by the two surgeons, 
Chabrier and Tavan, and 
secretly nursed by women of 
the neighborhood. 

Of the five legions into 
w^hich the Camisards were di- 
vided, it was the oldest and 
the most obscure that had its 
magazines by Cassagnas. This 
was the band of Spirit Se- 
guier; men who had joined 
their voices with his in the 68th 
Psalm as they marched down 
by night on the archpriest of 
the Cevennes. Seguier, pro- 
moted to heaven, was suc- 
237 



ceeded by Salomon Couderc, 
whom Cavalier treats in his 
memoirs as chaplain-general 
to the whole army of the Cam- 
isards. He was a prophet; 
a great reader of the heart, 
who admitted people to the 
sacrament or refused them by 
"intentively viewing every 
man" between the eyes; and 
had the most of the Scriptures 
off by rote. And this was 
surely happy; since in a sur- 
prise in August, 1 703, he lost 
his mule, his portfolios, and 
his Bible. It is only strange 
that they were not surprised 
more often and more effect- 
ually; for this legion of Cas- 
sagnas was truly patriarchal 
in its theory of war, and 
camped without sentries, leav- 
ing that duty to the angels of 
the God for whom they 
fought. This is a token, not 
only of their faith, but of the 
238 



trackless country where they 
harbored. M. de Caladon, 
taking a stroll one fine day, 
walked without warning into 
their midst, as he might have 
walked into "a flock of sheep 
in a plain," and found some 
asleep and some awake and 
psalm-singing. A traitor had 
need of no recommendation to 
insinuate himself among their 
ranks, beyond "his faculty of 
singing psalms" ; and even the 
prophet Salomon "took him 
into a particular friendship." 
Thus, among their intricate 
hills, the rustic troop sub- 
sisted; and history can attrib- 
ute few exploits to them but 
sacraments and ecstasies. 

People of this tough and 
simple stock will not, as I 
have just been saying, prove 
variable in religion; nor will 
they get nearer to apostasy 
than a mere external con- 
239 



formity like that of Naaman 
in the house of Rimmon. 
When Louis XVI, in the 
words of the edict, "con- 
vinced by the uselessness of a 
century of persecutions, and 
rather from necessity than 
sympathy," granted at last a 
royal grace of toleration, Cas- 
sagnas was still Protestant ; 
and to a man, it is so to this 
day. There is, indeed, one 
family that is not Protestant, 
but neither is it Catholic. It 
is that of a Catholic cure in 
revolt, who has taken to his 
bosom a schoolmistress. And 
his conduct, it 's worth not- 
ing, is disapproved by the 
Protestant villagers. 

"It is a bad idea for a 
man," said one, "to go back 
from his engagements." 

The villagers whom I saw 
seemed intelligent after a 
countrified fashion, and were 
240 



all plain and dignified in 
manner. As a Protestant my- 
self, I was well looked upon, 
and my acquaintance with his- 
tory gained me farther re- 
spect. For we had something 
not unlike a religious contro- 
versy at table, a gendarme and 
a merchant with whom I 
dined being both strangers to 
the place and Catholics. The 
young men of the house stood 
round and supported me ; and 
the whole discussion was tol- 
erantly conducted, and sur- 
prised a man brought up 
among the infinitesimal and 
contentious differences of 
Scotland. The merchant, in- 
deed, grew a little warm, and 
was far less pleased than some 
others with my historical ac- 
quirements. But the gen- 
darme was mighty easy over 
it all. 

"It 's a bad idea for a man 

16 241 



to change," said he; and the 
remark was generally ap- 
plauded. 

That was not the opinion 
of the priest and soldier at 
our Lady of the Snows. But 
this is a different race ; and 
perhaps the same great-heart- 
edness that upheld them to 
resist, now enables them to 
differ in a kind spirit. For 
courage respects courage; but 
where a faith has been trod- 
den out, we may look for a 
mean and narrow population. 
The true work of Bruce and 
Wallace was the union of the 
nations; not that they should 
stand apart awhile longer, 
skirmishing upon their bor- 
ders; but that, when the time 
came, they might unite with 
self-respect. The merchant 
was much interested in my 
journey, and thought it dan- 
gerous to sleep afield. 

"There are the wolves," 



said he; "and then it is 
known you are an English- 
man. The English have al- 
ways long purses, and it might 
very well enter into some 
one's head to deal you an ill 
blow some night." 

I told him I was not much 
afraid of such accidents; and 
at any rate judged it unwise 
to dwell upon alarms or con- 
sider small perils in the ar- 
rangement of life. Life it- 
self, I submitted, was a far 
too risky business as a whole 
to make each additional par- 
ticular of danger worth re- 
gard. "Something," said I, 
"might burst in your inside 
any day of the week, and there 
would be an end of you, if 
you were locked into your room 
with three turns of the key." 

" Cependant," said he, 
" coiicher dehors!" 

"God," said I, "is every- 
where." 

243 



" Cependant, coucher de- 
hors!" he repeated, and his 
voice was eloquent of terror. 

He was the only person, in 
all my voyage, who saw any- 
thing hardy in so simple a 
proceeding ; although many 
considered it superfluous. 
Only one, on the other hand, 
professed much delight in 
the idea; and that was my 
Plymouth Brother, who cried 
out, when I told him I some- 
times preferred sleeping un- 
der stars to a close and noisy 
alehouse, "Now I see that 
you know the Lord!" 

The merchant asked me for 
one of my cards as I was 
leaving, for he said I should 
be something to talk of in the 
future, and desired me to 
make a note of his request 
and reason; a desire with 
which I have thus complied. 

A little after two I struck 



across the Mimente, and took 
a rugged path southward up a 
hillside covered with loose 
stones and tufts of heather. 
At the top, as is the habit of 
the country, the path disap- 
peared ; and I left my she-ass 
munching heather, and went 
forward alone to seek a road. 
I w^as tiow on the separa- 
tion of two vast water-sheds; 
behind me all the streams 
were bound for the Garonne 
and the Western Ocean; be- 
fore me was the basin of the 
Rhone. Hence, as from the 
Lozere, you can see in clear 
weather the shining of the 
Gulf of Lyons; and perhaps 
from here the soldiers of Salo- 
mon may hav^ watched for 
the topsails of Sir Cloudesley 
Shovel, and the long-prom- 
ised aid from England. You 
may take this ridge as lying 
in the heart of the country of 

24S 



the Camisards ; four of the 
five legions camped all round 
it and almost within view — 
Salomon and Joani to the 
north, Castanet and Roland 
to the south; and when Ju- 
lien had finished his famous 
work, the devastation of the 
High Cevennes, which lasted 
all through October and No- 
vember, 1703, and during 
which four hundred and sixty 
villages and hamlets were, 
with fire and pickax, utterly 
subverted, a man standing on 
this eminence would have 
looked forth upon a silent, 
smokeless, and dispeopled 
land. Time and man's activ- 
ity have now repaired these 
ruins ; Cassagnas is once more 
roofed and sending up domes- 
tic smoke; and in the chest- 
nut gardens, in low and leafy 
corners, many a prosperous 
farmer returns, when the day's 
246 



work is done, to his children 
and bright hearth. And still 
it was perhaps the wildest 
view of all my journey. Peak 
upon peak, chain upon chain 
of hills ran surging south- 
ward, channeled and sculp- 
tured by the winter streams, 
feathered from head to foot 
with chestnuts, and here and 
there breaking out into a co- 
ronal of cliffs. The sun, 
which was still far from set- 
ting, sent a drift of misty 
gold across the hill-tops, but 
the valleys were already 
plunged in a profound and 
quiet shadow. 

A very old shepherd, hob- 
bling on a pair of sticks, and 
wearing a black cap of liberty, 
as if in honor of his near- 
ness to the grave, directed me 
to the road for St. Germain de 
Calberte. There was some- 
thing solemn in the isolation 
247 



of this infirm and ancient 
creature. Where he dwelt, 
how he got upon this high 
ridge, or how he proposed to 
get down again, were more 
than I could fancy. Not far 
off upon my right was the fa- 
mous Plan de Font Morte, 
where Poul with his Arme- 
nian saber slashed down the 
Camisards of Seguier. This, 
methought, might be some 
Rip Van Winkle of the war, 
who had lost his comrades, 
fleeing before Poul, and wan- 
dered ever since upon the 
mountains. It might be news 
to him that Cavalier had sur- 
rendered, or Roland had 
fallen fighting with his back 
against an olive. And while 
I was thus working on my 
fancy, I heard him hailing in 
broken tones, and saw him 
waving me to come back with 
one of his two sticks. I had 
248 



already got some way past 
him; but, leaving Modestine 
once more, retraced my steps. 

Alas, it was a very com- 
monplace affair. The old 
gentleman had forgot to ask 
the peddler what he sold, and 
wished to remedy this neg- 
lect. 

I told him sternly, "Noth- 
ing." 

"Nothing?" cried he. 

I repeated "Nothing," and 
made off. 

It 's odd to think of, but 
perhaps I thus became as in- 
explicable to the old man as 
he had been to me. 

The road lay under chest- 
nuts, and though I saw a ham- 
let or two below me in the 
vale, and many lone houses of 
the chestnut farmers, it was a 
very solitary march all after- 
noon; and the evening began 
early underneath the trees. 
249 



But I heard the voice of a 
woman singing some sad, old, 
endless ballad not far off. It 
seemed to be about love and 
a bel amour eux, her handsome 
sweetheart; and I wished I 
could have taken up the strain 
and answered her ; as I went 
on upon my invisible wood- 
land way, weaving, like Pip- 
pa in the poem, my own 
thoughts with hers. What 
could I have told her? Little 
enough; and yet all the heart 
requires. How the world 
gives and takes away, and 
brings sweethearts near, only 
to separate them again into 
distant and strange lands ; but 
to love is the great amulet 
which makes the world a gar- 
den; and "hope, which comes 
to all," outwears the accidents 
of life, and reaches with trem- 
ulous hand beyond the grave 
and death. Easy to say : yea, 
250 



but also, by God's mercy both 
easy and grateful to believe ! 
We struck at last into a 
wide white highroad, carpeted 
with noiseless dust. The 
night had come; the moon 
had been shining for a long 
while upon the opposite moun- 
tain ; when on turning a cor- 
ner my donkey and I issued 
ourselves into her light. I 
had emptied out my brandy at 
Florae, for I could bear the 
stuff no longer, and replaced 
it with some generous and 
scented Volnay; and now I 
drank to the moon's sacred 
majesty upon the road. It 
was but a couple of mouth- 
fuls ; yet I became thence- 
forth unconscious of my limbs, 
and my blood flowed with 
luxury. Even Modestine was 
inspired by this purified noc- 
turnal sunshine, and bestirred 
her little hoofs as to a livelier 
251 



measure. The road wound 
and descended swiftly among 
masses of chestnuts. Hot 
dust rose from our feet and 
flowed away. Our two shad- 
ows — mine deformed with 
the knapsack, hers comically 
bestridden by the pack — now 
lay before us clearly outlined 
on the road, and now, as we 
turned a corner, went off into 
the ghostly distance, and 
sailed along the mountainlike 
clouds. From time to time a 
warm wind rustled down the 
valley, and set all the chest- 
nuts dangling their bunches 
of foliage and fruit; the ear 
was filled with whispering 
music, and the shadows danced 
in tune. And next moment 
the breeze had gone by, and 
in all the valley nothing 
moved except our traveling 
feet. On the opposite slope, 
the monstrous ribs and gullies 



of the mountain were faintly 
designed in the moonshine; 
and high overhead, in some 
lone house, there burned one 
lighted window, one square 
spark of red in the huge field 
of sad nocturnal coloring. 

At a certain point, as I 
went downward, turning 
many acute angles, the moon 
disappearea behind the hill ; 
and I pursued m^y way in 
great darkness, until another 
turning shot me without prep- 
aration into St. Germain de 
Calberte. The place was 
asleep and silent, and buried 
in opaque night. Only from 
a single open door, some 
lamplight escaped upon the 
road to show me I was come 
among men's habitations. The 
two last gossips of the even- 
ing, still talking by a garden 
v/all, directed me to the inn. 
The landlady was getting her 

253 



chicks to bed ; the fire was al- 
ready out, and had, not with- 
out grumbling, to be rekin- 
dled ; half an hour later, and 
I must have gone supperless 
to roost. 



254 



THE LAST DAY 

When I woke (Thursday, 3d 
October), and, hearing a 
great flourishing of cocks and 
chuckling of contented hens, 
betook me to the Avindow of 
the clean and comfortable 
room where I had slept the 
night, I looked forth on a 
sunshiny morning in a deep 
vale of chestnut gardens. It 
was still early, and the cock- 
crows, and the slanting lights, 
and the long shadows en- 
couraged me to be out and 
look round me. 

St. Germain de Calberte is 
a great parish nine leagues 
round about. At the period 
of the wars, and immediately 
before the devastation, it was 
inhabited by two hundred and 



seventy-five families, of which 
only nine were Catholic; and 
it took the cure seventeen 
September days to go from 
house to house on horseback 
for a census. But the place 
itself, although capital of a 
canton, is scarce larger than 
a hamlet. It lies terraced 
across a steep slope in the 
midst of mighty chestnuts. 
The Protestant chapel stands 
below upon a shoulder ; in 
the midst of the town is the 
quaint old Catholic church. 

It was here that poor Du 
Chayla, the Christian martyr, 
kept his library and held a 
court of missionaries ; here he 
had built his tomb, thinking 
to lie among a grateful popu- 
lation whom he had redeemed 
from error ; and hither on the 
morrow of his death they 
brought the body, pierced 
with two-and-fifty wounds, to 



be interred. Clad in his 
priestly robes, he was laid out 
in state in the church. The 
cure, taking his text from 
Second Samuel, twentieth 
chapter and twelfth verse, 
"And Amasa wallowed in his 
blood in the highway," 
preached a rousing sermon, 
and exhorted his brethren to 
die each at his post, like their 
unhappy and illustrious supe- 
rior. In the midst of this 
eloquence there came a breeze 
that Spirit Seguier was near 
at hand ; and behold ! all the 
assembly took to their horses' 
heels, some east, some west, 
and the cure himself as far 
as Alais. 

Strange was the position of 
this little Catholic metropolis, 
a thimbleful of Rome, in such 
a wild and contrary neigh- 
borhood. On the one hand, 
the legion of Salomon over- 



looked it from Cassagnas ; on 
the other, it was cut off from 
assistance by the legion of 
Roland at Mialet. The cure, 
Louvrelenil, although he took 
a panic at the archpriest's fu- 
neral, and so hurriedly de- 
camped to Alais, stood well 
by his isolated pulpit, and 
thence uttered fulminations 
against the crimes of the Prot- 
estants. Salomon besieged the 
village for an hour and a 
half, but was beat back. The 
militiamen, on guard before 
the cure's door, could be 
heard, in the black hours, 
singing Protestant psalms and 
holding friendly talk with the 
insurgents. And in the morn- 
ing, although not a shot had 
been fired, there would not be 
a round of powder in their 
flasks. Where was it gone? 
All handed over to the Cam- 
isards for a consideration. 
258 



Untrusty guardians for an 
isolated priest! 

That these continual stirs 
were once busy in St. Ger- 
main de Calberte, the imagi- 
nation with difficulty receives ; 
all is now so quiet, the pulse 
of human life now beats so 
low and still in this hamlet of 
the mountains. Boys fol- 
lowed me a great way off, like 
a timid sort of lion-hunters; 
and people turned round to 
have a second look, or came 
out of their houses, as I went 
by. My passage was the first 
event, you would have fan- 
cied, since the Camisards. 
There was nothing rude or 
forward in this observation; 
it was but a pleased and won- 
dering scrutiny, like that of 
oxen or the human infant; 
yet it wearied my spirits, and 
soon drove me from the street. 

I took refuge on the ter- 
259 



races, which are here greenly 
carpeted with sward, and tried 
to imitate with a pencil the 
inimitable attitudes of the 
chestnuts as they bear up 
their canopy of leaves. Ever 
and again a little wind went 
by, and the nuts dropped all 
around me, with a light and 
dull sound, upon the sward. 
The noise was as of a thin 
fall of great hailstones ; but 
there went with it a cheerful 
human sentiment of an ap- 
proaching harvest and farm- 
ers rejoicing in their gains. 
Looking up, I could see the 
brown nut peering through 
the husk, which was already 
gaping ; and between the 
stems the eye embraced an 
amphitheater of hill, sunlit 
and green with leaves. 

I have not often enjoyed a 
place more deeply. I moved 
in an atmosphere of pleasure, 
260 



and felt light and quiet and 
content. But perhaps it was 
not the place alone that so 
disposed my spirit. Perhaps 
some one was thinking of me 
in another country; or per- 
haps some thought of my own 
had come and gone unnoticed, 
and yet done me good. For 
some thoughts, which sure 
would be the most beautiful, 
vanish before we can rightly 
scan their features ; as though 
a god, traveling by our green 
highways, should but ope the 
door, give one smiling look 
into the house, and go again 
for ever. Was it Apollo, or 
Mercury, or Love with folded 
wings? Who shall say? But 
we go the lighter about our 
business, and feel peace ^nd 
pleasure in our hearts. 

I dined with a pair of 
Catholics. They agreed in 
the condemnation of a young 



man, a Catholic, who had 
married a Protestant girl and 
gone over to the religion of 
his wife. A Protestant born 
they could understand and re- 
spect; indeed, they seemed to 
be of the mind of an old 
Catholic woman, who told me 
that same day there was no 
difference between the two 
sects, save that "wrong was 
more wrong for the Catho- 
lic," who had more light and 
guidance; but this of a man's 
desertion filled them with con- 
tempt. 

" It is a bad idea for a man 
to change," said one. 

It may have been acci- 
dental, but you see how this 
phrase pursued me; and for 
myself, I believe it is the cur- 
rent philosophy in these parts. 
I have some difficulty in imag- 
ining a better. It 's not only 
a great flight of confidence 
262 



for a man to change his creed 
and go out of his family for 
heaven's sake; but the odds 
are — nay, and the hope is — 
that, with all this great tran- 
sition in the eyes of man, he 
has not changed himself a 
hair's-breadth to the eyes of 
God. Honor to those who 
do so, for the wrench is sore. 
But it argT-.es something nar- 
row, whether of strength or 
weakness, whether of the 
prophet or the fool, in those 
who can take a sufficient in- 
terest in such infinitesimal 
and human operations, or who 
can quit a friendship for a 
doubtful process of the mind. 
And I think I should not 
leave my old creed for an- 
other, changing only words 
for other words ; but by some 
brave reading, embrace it in 
spirit and truth, and find 
wrong as wrong for me as for 
263 



the best of other communions. 

The phylloxera was in the 
neighborhood ; and instead of 
wine we drank at dinner a 
more economical juice of the 
grape — la Parisienne, they 
call it. It is made by putting 
the fruit whole into a cask 
with water; one by one the 
berries ferment and burst; 
what is drunk during the day 
is supplied at night in water ; 
so, with ever another pitcher 
from the well, and ever an- 
other grape exploding and 
giving out its strength, one 
cask of Parisienne may last a 
family till spring. It is, as 
the reader will anticipate, a 
feeble beverage, but very 
pleasant to the taste. 

What with dinner and cof- 
fee, it was long past three be- 
fore I left St. Germain de 
Calberte. I went down be- 
264 



side the Garden of Mialet, a 
great glaring watercourse de- 
void of water, and through 
St. Etienne de Vallee Fran- 
9aise, or Val Francesque, as 
they used to call it; and to- 
ward evening began to ascend 
the hill of St. Pierre. It was 
a long and steep ascent. Be- 
hind me an empty carriage 
returning to St. Jean du Gard 
kept hard upon my tracks, 
and near the summit overtook 
me. The driver, like the rest 
of the world, was sure I was 
a peddler ; but, unlike others, 
he was sure of what I had to 
sell. He had noticed the blue 
wool which hung out of my 
pack at either end ; and from 
this he had decided, beyond 
m.y power to alter his deci- 
sion, that I dealt in blue- 
wool callars, such as decorate 
the neck of the French 



draught-horse. 



265 



I had hurried to the top- 
most powers of Modestine, 
for I dearly desired to see the 
view upon the other side be- 
fore the day had faded. But 
it was night when I reached 
the summit; the moon was 
riding high and clear; and 
only a few gray streaks of 
twilight lingered in the west. 
A yawning valley, gulfed in 
blackness, lay like a hole in 
created Nature at my feet ; 
but the outline of the hills 
was sharp against the sky. 
There was Mount Aigoal, the 
stronghold of Castanet. And 
Castanet, not only as an active 
undertaking leader, deserves 
some mention among Cami- 
sards ; for there is a spray of 
rose among his laurel ; and he 
showed how, even in a public 
tragedy, love will have its 
way. In the high tide of war 
he married, in his mountain 



citadel, a young and pretty 
lass called Mariette. There 
were great rejoicings; and 
the bridegroom released five- 
and-twenty prisoners in honor 
of the glad event. Seven 
months afterward Mariette, 
the Princess of the Cevennes, 
as they called her in derision, 
fell into the hands of the au- 
thorities, where it was like to 
have gone hard with her. But 
Castanet was a man of execu- 
tion, and loved his wife. He 
fell on Valleraugue, and got 
a lady there for a hostage; 
and for the first and last time 
in that war there was an ex- 
change of prisoners. Their 
daughter, pledge of some 
starry night upon Mount 
Aigoal, has left descendants 
to this day. 

Modestine and I — it was 
our last meal together — had 
a snack upon the top of St. 
267 



Pierre, I on a heap of stones, 
she standing by me in the 
moonlight and decorously 
eating bread out of my hand. 
The poor brute would eat 
more heartily in this manner; 
for she had a sort of affection 
for me, which I was soon to 
betray. 

It was a long descent upon 
St. Jean du Gard, and we 
met no one but a carter, vis- 
ible afar off by the glint of 
the moon on his extinguished 
lantern. 

Before ten o'clock we had 
got in and were at supper; 
fifteen miles and a stiff hill in 
little beyond six hours! 



FAREWELL 
MODESTINE 

On examination, on the morn- 
ing of October 4th, Modes- 
tine was pronounced unfit for 
travel. She would need at 
least two days' repose accord- 
ing to the ostler; but I was 
now eager to reach Alais for 
my letters ; and, being in a 
civilized country of stage-' 
coaches, I determined to sell 
my lady-friend and be off by 
the diligence that afternoon. 
Our yesterday's march, with 
the testimony of the driver who 
had pursued us up the long 
hill of St. Pierre, spread a 
favorable notion of my don- 
key's capabilities. Intending 
purchasers were aware of an 
269 



unrivaled opportunity. Be- 
fore ten I had an offer of 
twenty-five francs ; and be- 
fore noon, after a desperate 
engagement, I sold her, sad- 
dle and all, for five-and- 
thirty. The pecuniary gain is 
not obvious, but I had bought 
freedom into the bargain. 

St. Jean du Gard is a large 
place and largely Protestant. 
The maire, a Protestant, asked 
me to help him in a small 
matter which is itself charac- 
teristic of the country. The 
young women of the Ceven- 
nes profit by the common re- 
ligion and the difference of 
the language to go largely as 
governesses into England ; 
and here was one, a native of 
Mialet, struggling with Eng- 
lish circulars from two dif- 
ferent agencies in London. I 
gave what help I could ; and 
volunteered some advice, 



which struck me as being ex- 
cellent. 

One thing more I note. 
The phylloxera has ravaged 
the vineyards in this neigh- 
borhood; and in the early 
morning, under some chest- 
nuts by the river, I found a 
party of men working with a 
cider-press. I could not at 
first make out what they were 
after, and asked one fellow 
to explain. 

"Making cider," he said. 
''Oui, c'est comme fa. Comme 
dans le nord!" 

There was a ring of sar- 
casm in his voice ; the country 
was going to the devil. 

It was not until I was 
fairly seated by the driver, 
and rattling through a rocky 
valley with dwarf olives, that 
I became aware of my be- 
reavement. I had lost Modes- 
tine. Up to that moment I 



had thought I hated her; but 
now she was gone, 

"And, O, 
The difference to me!" 

For twelve days we had 
been fast companions; we 
had traveled upward of a 
hundred and twenty miles, 
crossed several respectable 
ridges, and jogged along with 
our six legs by many a rocky 
and many a boggy by-road. 
After the first day, although 
sometimes I was hurt and dis- 
tant in manner, I still kept 
my patience; and as for her, 
poor soul ! she had come to 
regard me as a god. She 
loved to eat out of my hand. 
She was patient, elegant in 
form, the color of an ideal 
mouse, and inimitably small. 
Her faults were those of her 
race and sex ; her virtues were 
272 



her own. Farewell, and if 

for ever 

Father Adam wept when he 
sold her to me; after I had 
sold her in my turn, I was 
tempted to follow his exam- 
ple; and being alone with a 
stage-driver and four or five 
agreeable young men, I did 
not hesitate to yield to my 
emotion. 



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